Courage to Love
by Treva Rea
Summary: Samantha Stewart has a secret. Will it destroy her blossoming relationship with her boss or will she fight her fears and find the courage to love?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This multi-chapter fic starts just before the last episode All Clear and the other three episodes never happened.

I'd like to also thank my new friends who helped me develop and edit this story – Em, dancesabove and hazeleyes (though she hasn't read the whole thing yet). All your encouragement and gentle pushing paid off.

Summary: Samantha Stewart has a secret. Will it destroy her blossoming relationship with her boss or will she fight her fears and find the courage to love?

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><p>Samantha Stewart drove through the darkened, quiet streets of Hastings, ferrying her boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, to his home before storing the vehicle for the night at the police station. She was uncharacteristically quiet; even she had to acknowledge the fact. Since being in Hastings, she'd been bombed three times, stepped out with her boss' son, suffered through an anthrax infection, broken up with her almost fiancé, and developed romantic feelings for her boss, who was twenty-five years her senior and, it appeared, oblivious to her budding feelings. While she was most recently suffering and recovering from pneumonia, a complication relating to the anthrax attack of nearly three years earlier, he'd remained at her bedside, reading Shelley to her until she'd fallen asleep. In her eyes, he'd shown incredible aplomb in relation to her newest harrowing illness. It had scared the hell out of her.<p>

She pretended preoccupation with the gearshift as she observed her boss, wondering where his attention now lay. She'd been correct to assume that he'd been furtively watching her and she knew he was curious as to her quietness. She really had no explanation for it, at least not one she could tell him about. He'd treated her to dinner after work, for the fourteenth time since she'd been released from hospital three weeks ago. With the exception of the few days she'd stayed at home after leaving hospital, and the weekends, she'd dined with him every night. It was alarming, to say the least. The first few times were lovely. She'd enjoyed whatever moments she got to spend with him before her illness, during work and after hours, and she still did, but the increase in the time he was intentionally spending with her, along with her burgeoning feelings for the older man, created a dilemma for her. Was he doing this just out of charity? Was he thinking that she needed extra care now, and just looking out for her as a father would his daughter? Or, dare she hope, was he developing the same feelings that she found herself facing?

She'd never held back from asking numerous questions before, but this was another matter. If he regarded her only as a daughter or as a charity case, asking him about his feelings or asking if he was courting her would certainly put a damper on their friendship as well as their work relationship. Still, she wished she could ask.

"Sam? Got something on your mind?" Foyle asked her.

_How does he do that?_

"No, not really, sir," she replied, lying outright.

"Sam, you can do better than that. You clearly have something on your mind. Another crossroads, perhaps?" he queried.

She shook her head. "No, not really. Just… well, thinking about some things."

"Anything I can help you with?"

She blinked. He'd left an opening… and normally she'd take it. She glanced over at him as she pulled up next to his house. She pulled on the handbrake, then sat back against the seat and looked down at her now-idle hands.

"May I ask you a, well… a personal question?"

"Yup."

He didn't think he'd be able to stop her anyway; it was either now or later.

Although Sam knew exactly what she wanted to ask him, her boss and friend, she couldn't form the words. Now that the time allowed for it, she was too reticent to mention what had been occupying her thoughts these last several weeks. It all seemed _much _too forward.

Foyle was waiting patiently, expectantly, but Sam just couldn't find the words. Instead, she shook her head and just said, "Never mind."

"You've usually let me know what you're thinking about, before. Why not now?"

"No, really sir, I couldn't. I don't know how to ask it without seeming a bit, well… no, it's all right. I'll see you Monday morning."

Now his curiosity was piqued. "Sam, just ask it, straight on."

They stared each other down a moment, and just when he thought he was to have a reprieve, she sighed and asked, "What… umm, are you…?"

She couldn't do it. Her dejection about her inability to voice her concern was plain to Foyle as she placed her forehead on the steering wheel between her hands.

At that point, he knew what she wanted to ask. He'd been asking the same question himself for the past three weeks. It wasn't as if tonight had been an unusual outing for them; a business-related dinner or lunch had often occurred during the past several years. But their dinners and lunches had become habitual and were nothing to do with work. To all intents and purposes, no matter how much he tried to justify it or to deny it, he was courting his young driver. He enjoyed her company and her inquisitiveness, and though she was sometimes far off the mark, she had a keen mind for searching out the answers as they investigated the multitude of crimes that came their way. She was also quite beautiful, in uniform or casually dressed.

"Sam, come inside."

She lifted her head and stared at him as if he'd suggested something rather untoward.

"Uh, no, sir. Thank you, but I don't really think—"

"Sam, we should talk, and we can't sit in the car. Switch off the engine and come inside."

She did as she was told, meeting him at the top of his steps as he unlocked the door. He allowed her to enter first, placing his hand on the small of her back to usher her in. He realized that it wasn't the first time he'd done so. Looking back, he remembered the first time, when she'd nearly taken a tumble in the early spring when the pavements were still a bit icy at times. It had also been one of their first non-business-related dinners. He also knew that she'd noticed, because he'd caught her on several occasions giving him a quizzical stare that he ignored in hopes of staving off the very conversation they were about to have. He really had no clue where they were headed, but he sincerely hoped that the fact she finally wanted to ask the question meant she was looking for the same answer.

She removed her jacket and hat and placed them on a hook in the hall.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please."

"Have a seat. I'll be back in a few moments."

When he returned, he found her sitting on the settee. He placed the tray on the small table and poured the tea. He didn't bother asking her how much sugar she liked; he already knew.

Foyle didn't take his customary chair, but chose instead to sit next to her on the settee. He didn't want her to feel intimidated and too afraid to speak her mind, as she had been in the car.

As she was taking a sip of her tea, he asked, "So, what was it you wanted to ask, Sam?"

She blinked once over the rim of the teacup. She lowered the cup to the saucer and stared at it as she gathered her thoughts.

"I have… we've… we seem to have… "

Her stuttering was endearing, especially as he'd rarely heard her do so before. Sam Stewart usually had no difficulty getting to the point.

He stopped her from continuing with his hand on her forearm. "Sam, I think I know what's on your mind. Just go ahead and spit it out."

"Are you courting me?" She blurted, then looked utterly chagrined.

With his hand still on her arm, he smiled kindly at her and said, "It would appear that way, wouldn't it?"

Though she knew it was a rhetorical question, she nodded anyway.

"I've been asking myself that same question the last few weeks and the only answer I can come up with is 'yes'."

"Why?"

He hadn't expected that question. He frowned, wondering why she would ask it.

"Why not?"

"No, I didn't mean that you shouldn't… just that you didn't seem to be interested before," she explained.

Again he smiled, this time his eyes dancing with the joy of remembrance. He recalled the very first day she had entered his office and declared that she was his new driver. How unexpected his reaction to her had been. Surprise—not only to find that his new driver would be a woman, but a young one who took his breath away. Within a few months, he knew he couldn't do without her.

"Sam, I wasn't… _not_ attracted to you before. I just never thought that such a feeling would develop between us, especially in you. Am I assuming too much here?"

She shook her head vigorously. He had assumed correctly that she felt an attachment to him. She said, "I thought the same of you."

He took a sip of his tea, sparing himself a few seconds to think of what to say next. This was unchartered territory, sort of. Although he'd been married, he suddenly felt as though he'd never courted a woman before.

Sam also sipped her tea, but instead of waiting for him to say something more, she felt emboldened enough to ask, "What now?"

The answer had been there the whole time; he just hadn't been sure how to proceed with the situation as it now stood. He removed his hand from her arm and leaned forward toward her, a little more intimately. "The war is still on, though it seems to be drawing to an end. Shall we continue as we have been for now, and just let things happen as they may?"

Her eyes darted back and forth for a couple of seconds; then she nodded. "I think that would be best, don't you? I mean, this… is still new to us and we don't know what will happen."

"And we don't know what reaction we'll get from others, especially your father."

Sam closed her eyes at the thought of how her father would react. But then her eyes became large as she remembered something vitally important. "Did I ever mention that my mother is eighteen years younger than my father?"

"No, you didn't." Foyle couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his throat. "It wouldn't do for a vicar to live one way and expect his children and flock to live another, now would it?"

Sam shook her head, grinning from ear to ear. "No it wouldn't." Then she sobered a moment. "But he will be concerned, especially as I've been working for you, and so closely, for the past five years."

Foyle also looked pensive, and considered the situation more fully. If it were he in her father's place, he'd be quite disappointed that he hadn't been asked for permission. "Sam, let me be very clear."

She nodded.

"You do understand that I am courting you seriously and I'm given to understand that you welcome my interest?"

"Yes."

"That my intentions toward you are entirely aboveboard, and that if we suit I would eventually ask for your hand?"

"Ye...yes," she stuttered, barely able to believe her dreams were finally coming true.

He put his cup and saucer on the table and stared at his young driver in all earnestness. "Then I think it only proper that I pay a call on your father—now, not later."

Sam's eyes again grew very large, reminding Foyle of a doe's eyes as she becomes fully alert to the noises around her. Sam placed her teacup and saucer on the table too, and sat back against the cushions. "Really? You want to do that now?"

"If the situation was reversed, and my daughter was stepping out with a much older man, I'd be very concerned and extremely disappointed if I was not asked for permission."

"You're not old, sir."

He smiled. "I am, Sam. Just not decrepit… yet."

She smiled back at him and declared, "I certainly have never thought of you that way."

"Good to know."

"You did bring up, though, how you'd feel if you had a daughter in the same situation. Do you… I mean, have you ever thought of me as a daughter?"

He arched one eyebrow. "I… no. I mean I thought I did, or I tried to make myself believe my feelings for you were like a father's. But as time went on, it became quite clear that the feelings I've had, from the beginning, could not be those of a father for his daughter."

"Oh, I see."

He knew she did by the faint blush that had crept onto her face.

"Sam, I really do think I should speak with your father. Have I your permission to do so?"

She nodded and said, "I would like to be with you, though."

He started to disagree, but she continued, "I don't mean during your conversation, but I think your showing up at my home without me might be construed in an unfavorable light, at first. And in my mother's condition, it could even be… well, deadly."

She had a point and he conceded to it.

"Then I suggest that we use the weekend to drive up. We can leave around eight tomorrow morning and be back by late evening, as I'm sure they'll want you to stay a short while."

"I should get home then, and get some sleep."

"It is late, isn't it? You could stay in the back bedroom—"

"No, I don't think that I should. I'm not just your subordinate anymore. Given our _understanding,_ I don't think it would be wise for me to spend the night again."

This time he blushed. He wasn't embarrassed, quite the contrary. He was recalling the dream he'd had the night before; it was a recurring dream and one he hoped to have fulfilled… soon. Knowing that she was giving that possibility even the slightest consideration made it even harder for him to let her leave.

"Understood. You'd better head home, then. And keep the car tonight."

He walked her to the door, and as she reached for her hat and jacket, she paused and turned to him. She was about to ask him one more pertinent question—but she quickly discovered that his mind had already turned down that same road. He cupped her jaw and neckline, pulling her closer to him. She rested her hands on his chest to steady herself as his lips met hers in an exquisitely tender, but much too brief, kiss.

She shuddered when he broke the kiss and her eyelids fluttered open. She spoke what was in her heart, not truly contemplating the consequences. "I don't want to go."

His hand still on her neck, he gathered her close again but only dropped a tender kiss on her forehead and murmured, "And _that_ is precisely why you must." He took her jacket from her fingers and held it open for her as she slipped into it. She didn't put her cap back on.

"Eight o'clock sharp?" he asked, reminding her.

"Yup."

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I was waiting on help with the Americanisms. I don't think we got them all, so please ignore them.

Again, thanks to Emma and dances above for their love of the show and love of discussing it. They know just how to motivate me to finish. I am two chapters (15 total) away from finishing the whole story, I hope.

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><p>The next morning, Foyle nervously fingered his tie, waiting rather impatiently for Sam to arrive. It was only seven-thirty, but he'd thought she'd be there early. He took another sip of his tea and another bite of his toast. While some might have thought he was getting cold feet, he was actually more anxious to get the ordeal over with. He'd never had to ask Rosalind's father for permission, as her father had passed away some years before they'd met. Still, he did ask her brother, who was overjoyed at making Foyle his brother-in-law. Before that, Christopher's suit of Elizabeth had been rejected by her father, who gave as his reasons Foyle's not being of the proper class, but a mere police officer.<p>

While he did not think Mr. Stewart would be inclined to refuse his suit of Sam because of class distinction, he was acutely aware of how it might appear to the father of a twenty-six-year-old daughter to be courted by a fifty-one-year-old man. "Old" being the operative word.

And to top it off, he had no idea what his son, Andrew, would think. He'd stepped out with Sam earlier and had disappointed Foyle by the manner in which he'd broken it off with her. _A letter, for goodness sake_. He thought he'd brought his son up better than that. Also, Andrew had stayed at Sam's flat for a time while hiding out from the RAF, afraid to return to flying. Foyle didn't know what had occurred between the two while Andrew stayed at her place, and he really didn't want to give it much thought. But he knew Sam, and she wasn't a girl to give herself so freely to someone she didn't love. Foyle thought a moment and shook his head. _No, she wouldn't have. She hadn't been in love with his son_.

Now that he thought about it, even Sam had never said how she felt about this change in their status. Other than her implication the night before that she was tempted to stay the night with him, and the kiss when they'd said goodnight, she'd hardly stated her feelings or how long she'd had them. He hadn't asked, to be sure, but maybe he should. It would give him some indication of not only how she felt about him but also how deep those feelings were. _God, what a muddled affair… well, not an affair per se,  
>just<em>—

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It was only a quarter 'til the hour. She was early. _Thank God_.

He opened it to a lovely surprise. He'd seen Sam in casual dress before, but this time, it was for him. She wore a lightweight dress, a creamy yellow, with her hair down in soft curls. She smiled dazzlingly and chirped her greeting. "Good morning, sir."

He smiled back, of course, but seeing her looking quite adorable had him tongue-tied. He smoothed his tie and 'hmm'd to her as he turned to grab his coat and hat. She chuckled at his lack of words. She knew him too well.

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><p>It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. The drive to see Sam's parents was uneventful but certainly full of conversation. Sam rattled on at her normal pace, but clearly wanted Foyle's participation. She asked a lot of questions, mainly having to do with Foyle's parents, his high school years, where he went to school, and then Andrew... as a boy growing up. The discussion landed on the topic of Rosalind.<p>

At first Foyle seemed unwilling to discuss his late wife, but Sam, after a few quiet moments, plowed on. She gradually drew him out by bringing up Rosalind's artwork. Sam had taken an interest in her paintings early on in her career with the police force when she'd spied them in his front hallway. What she hadn't told Foyle at the time was that she'd loved to sketch when she was younger, and that according to her father, she was quite good (although she'd sometimes suspected her father just said that to placate her). She liked her drawings, though, and knew that some of them were locked away in her room at her parents' house. Maybe one day she'd pull them out again.

Really, the reason Sam was so interested in Rosalind was because she wanted to know about the woman who had Foyle's heart and had borne him his son. When Foyle had kissed her the night before, she'd felt quite eager, and yet something niggled at the back of her mind. Was she really what he wanted? Would she be able to fill the void that his late wife had left? _A flash of dry, itchy straw and large hands flashed in front of her eyes._ The sudden vision caused her to swerve the car slightly, recovering quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent Foyle noticing.

"Not nervous, are you?" he asked.

She smiled, glancing over at him. He wasn't sitting straight in the passenger seat; rather he was more or less facing her, leaning against the car door.

"Not at all. You?"

"Hmm." He looked out the windscreen and down the road.

_Yep, he's nervous._

"You know, my father just wants me to be happy. If he thinks that I am happy with you, he's not going to argue about it."

Foyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "How old was your mother when they married?"

Sam smiled. She'd heard the story often enough as a child. "She was twenty-two and he was forty." She dared another glance his way. His head was down and he was playing with his tie. "Just six years younger than I am now, Sir."

"How long had they known each other before they courted?" he asked.

"Oh, that's a good story!" She laughed a bit and almost bounced in her seat. "They'd only known each other for three weeks before they got engaged."

Foyle's eyes whipped back to her face, to see if she were joking.

"They met at a May Day fair, and three weeks later, he asked for her hand." Sam looked over to see Foyle's mouth open. She giggled. "He was smitten. He's always told me that he knew what he wanted, and he went after it. I guess my grandfather was impressed with him. Of course, my grandfather also had two other daughters he wanted to marry off! So getting one out of the house was a huge blessing."

Christopher was staring off through the windscreen again, obviously in deep thought.

_He really is nervous._ Maybe things were moving a little too fast for him now that they were actually on the road, heading to her parents' house. Really, the man was courting her, had kissed her and _now_ was afraid? _Hmm, I could have some fun with this._

"Si... Christopher?" she asked.

He blinked, then looked at her.

"I'm the only daughter." She grinned unabashedly. "There's no rush to marry me off."

Caught in his thoughts, Foyle blushed. Sam had a way of reading him at times that made him wonder if she didn't have some unknown power available to her.

"Sir? Are you sure you want to do this?"

Foyle looked at her askance, worried even.

"I mean talking to my father."

He lifted his head and nodded. "Yep. I'm sure."

"It's just, well, you seem a bit tense." Sam kept darting a look at him as she kept an eye on the road. "I mean, it's a great idea, but truthfully, I'm hoping my father doesn't decide to keep me at home rather than let me come back."

Foyle, who had deliberately been watching the road since Sam was evidently distracted, shot her a startled look. She shrugged noncommittally. "Sam, if my asking your father if I can court you is going to get you locked up in your room, I'm all for going back to Hastings."

Sam couldn't help but chuckle. She really didn't think her father would do any such thing, mainly because they were abiding by societal rules of his and Christopher's generation. Still, you never could tell… She just hoped her father was in a good mood and wasn't dealing with any crisis in the parish—and specifically not with any P.W.P. situations.

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><p>Sam's outward appearance and audible musings were in direct contrast with how Foyle was feeling. Even though she'd suggested the possibility that her father could demand that she remain in Lyminster, she didn't seem overly worried about it. The problem was that Foyle knew what it was like to have his suit rejected, and for some reason, the idea of rejection by her father was bothering him profoundly. More so even than the <em>actual<em> rejection he'd received from Elizabeth's father nearly thirty years ago. Sam was not a child, but when Sam's father had come for her five years ago, he had treated her as such. It felt as though her parents were indulging her by letting her stay in Hastings, as one might indulge a pampered or spoiled child. They acted as if Sam's job was of little importance, just a whim of hers. He didn't like the comparison. Sam was anything but spoiled. Gently bred was a better description. Sam's behavior and demeanor were always direct, but never demanding in the way a spoiled debutante's might be.

He knew things were moving a bit fast. His goodnight kiss last night had been spur of the moment. He hoped Sam hadn't got the impression that he was only interested in her for a physical relationship. He'd wanted to kiss her all night. Since she'd asked the question about whether he was courting her, he'd had no other thought. He loved to watch her pout; her full, pink bottom lip plumping even more as she endeavored to get her way.

_Maybe it wasn't too fast. _They'd known each other for five years, and the last three weeks, though short, weren't rushed. The more time he spent with her, the more he understood just how strongly she felt about specific topics. Sure, she was naive on some things—but with very little time, she'd understand the nuances or come to the correct conclusion much quicker than some of the men he worked with daily. Sergeant Brooks, for example, though upright and always ready to do his duty, had a hard time with his reactions to incidents. Foyle recalled his first case with Sam and how, though he'd told her to wait for him, she had shown the forethought to realize that the open area of his meeting provided an easy escape. She'd been ready and helped detain the suspect... with a steel dustbin lid. He smiled in remembrance.

Foyle was no longer nervous. He'd assure Mr. Stewart of his feelings for his daughter. Piece of cake. _Where did I pick up that saying?_

"Si... I mean Christopher, why are you smiling?"

"I was just thinking about our first meeting," he smirked.

Sam suddenly turned very red and he couldn't think why.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. I just... well, I remember that too."

"Sam, you're positively scarlet." He grinned and couldn't let it go. "I haven't seen you this red… well, ever. What about our first meeting is making you blush so profusely?"

Her hands gripped the wheel tightly and she looked shyly at the speedometer. "It's nothing. Really."

"Sam."

"Oh, all right," she huffed. "I was so scared of not being accepted that day and being sent back to the MTC that I remember pacing on the sidewalk for nearly ten minutes before walking into the station house. But when the sergeant saw me and directed me to your office, I had calmed down enough to realize that I was transferred by request—and not by my own request—so it was unlikely I'd be turned away. But then, when I opened the door and saw your reaction... well, I thought for sure you were going to shoo me out of your office. And..." She groaned.

"And what?" he urged her to continue.

She bit her lower lip and met his eyes. "I thought I'd just die if you refused me."

Foyle blinked. He watched her as she checked the road and looked out the windscreen and then the side window, everywhere but at him. _What am I not seeing?_ It suddenly came to him when she darted a quick glance at him. _So, it wasn't just me._

"Sam, are you telling me you've had feelings for me since that first meeting?"

There could be no avoiding this conversation. "Yes," she sighed. "You were sitting behind your desk, without your jacket, sporting a lovely red tie... you looked so distinguished. The look on your face when you saw me was quite adorable. Like a deer caught in the headlights."

"So, for the last five years you've had these feelings, and never gave me any inkling?"

"I believed that you thought I was annoying and troublesome and that, well… that you thought of me as only a daughter."

He straightened in his seat, shifting so that he was now facing forward. "I've never thought of you as a daughter, Sam." He leaned closer and softly enjoined, "You reminded me of my... of Rosalind."

Sam met his eyes and knew he meant it. But she wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. She held her breath as Foyle explained.

"When I first met her, she was exuberant, chatty, inquisitive—and she had this way of insinuating herself in the damnedest things that she really should never have been a part of, but it was her way, and I loved her for it."

Sam exhaled. "So, I wasn't annoying?"

Foyle chuckled, "Oh, you definitely were. But not for the reasons you think. You just had this way of reminding me of what I was without. But don't misunderstand. At first, you did remind me of her... and then at some point—I'm not really sure when—I'd think only about you. During certain cases, when we'd interview young, chatty women involved in some way with the cases, I wouldn't think of Rosalind anymore. I'd think of you—your cheery disposition, prattling along at a hare's pace. And rather than be irritated, I'd suddenly feel more contented, brighter even, more… alive."

Sam smiled brightly. "Alive, huh? Really?"

"Yes, really." He grinned broadly.

"You look really handsome when you smile," Sam said. "You should do it more."

"Then you'll have to spend more time with me. Not much opportunity for smiles while investigating murders." He grinned again, just for her.

"I thought that was the plan," she said coyly, dipping her head to the side.

"Definitely," he agreed.

"Once my father gives his blessing, then what?" Sam asked.

"Well, we'll continue the way things have been."

"Nothing more?" she asked.

Foyle squinted at her.

"I mean, the dinners are lovely, but what about other activities? You like to fish... and I always enjoyed fishing with my brothers and friends. I'm actually quite adept with a fly."

"Really? You like to fish?"

"I do. I even have my own waders. They're at my parents'. Didn't quite see a reason to bring them with me before, but I could bring them back with us now."

Foyle was amused and surprised. He hadn't pictured the daughter of a vicar out wading around in thigh-high water with a hook and line. "What did you use for lures?"

"My brothers had so many between them, I just used theirs. During the winter, they'd spend heavy snow days making them for use in the spring and summer."

He nodded as he visualized her brothers doing just what he liked to do on boring, snowy days. "Well, then, perhaps tomorrow we could go on our first fishing expedition."

"Have you a regular spot?"

"Yep. Oftentimes, Chief Reid will join me."

"Would he be there tomorrow?"

"We had no plans. And I believe his wife had some other plans after church for them."

"Then it's a date."

"Yes, it definitely is."

Foyle started making plans for the next day, thinking a picnic was in order. He hadn't been fishing with a woman since Rosalind. She liked to go along, but she wouldn't actually fish. Mostly, she spent her time on the bank, reading or painting while enjoying the sun. If it was raining, she would stay at home and take care of the housework or prepare the rest of their supper. He was quite curious to find out whether Sam was indeed as interested in fishing as she claimed. He found himself hoping she was. If_ we still have the chance to spend the day together tomorrow._

TBC..._  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks again to my betas and to those who have reviewed. I have finished writing this story tonight!. I plan to upload one chapter each week. If you are reading this and enjoy it... drop a line. Thanks!

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><p>Sam neatly weaved the car through the small village of Lyminster to her father's house, the vicarage, which was immediately next door to the church. After she parked, both Foyle and she stared up the pavement at the front of the house, making no move to get out of the vehicle. Sam looked at Foyle and gave him a cheeky grin.<p>

"Would you stop?" Foyle asked.

"Oh, come, now. It won't be that bad... Sir." She couldn't help the giggle escaping her lips.

"And none of that. If you keep confusing things and call me "Sir" instead of by my given name, they'll doubt that this is serious on your part... or mine, for that matter." He grabbed his hat and placed it back on his head. "Let's go."

They walked together to the front door, Foyle with his hands in his pockets and she with her hands behind her back. Neither of them wanted to give anything away until Foyle had a chance to speak with her father.

Sam didn't knock, just opened the door and went inside, followed closely by Foyle, who was already taking off his hat again as they entered the house. She called out for her dad, but they got no answer. They walked further into the living room and she called again. Sam walked toward what Foyle believed to be the kitchen and was just starting to call out again when she yelped. Foyle turned from observing the living room toward Sam, who was now embracing her father.

"Samantha," the older man greeted endearingly. "What a pleasant surprise!"

It was then that Mr. Stewart noticed there was someone else in the house. He recognized him instantly. "Mr. Foyle. What brings you to Lyminster?" He looked down at his daughter then back at Foyle again. His smile turned to a frown—something was a bit strange.

Seeing the worry on his face, Foyle finally stepped forward and shook his hand. "Sam and I thought it would be a good time for a visit."

Foyle's words were not lost on the older man, implying as they did that Sam and Foyle had an agenda for their visit.

"Dad, where's Mum?"

Shaking himself, he replied, "She's in the garden. She's having one of her _good_ days."

Sam glanced at Foyle, and then nodded toward what Foyle presumed was the back door. "I think I'll, uh, go let her know we're here, and help her finish up."

Foyle nodded back at her and both men watched her leave the room.

"Mr. Foyle, is something wrong?"

Foyle dipped his head and fingered his hat as he reassured Sam's father, "No, nothing's amiss. Sam is well, working hard; actually very busy of late."

Mr. Stewart offered Foyle a seat in the living room, but Foyle stared at it a moment, then glanced in the direction of the back door. He didn't want any interruptions when he started broaching the subject of courtship. "Would you possibly have somewhere we could talk privately?"

Again Mr. Stewart frowned, clearly unsure why Sam's boss wanted a private conversation with him. "I do have an office at the church."

Foyle nodded and Mr. Stewart led the way out the front door to the church. Mr. Stewart made small talk about the village and the church as they walked the short distance. When they reached his office, he shut the door behind Foyle and stood behind his desk while Foyle sat in one of the leather guest chairs.

"Would you care for a drink?"

Foyle licked his lips nervously. "Yes, thank you."

Sam's father poured two glasses of Scotch, then handed one to Foyle as he took his seat.

"So, was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?"

Foyle had taken a sip of the Scotch and sat back in the leather seat, comfortable for the moment. "I did. It's, um, well, Sam—"

"So, there _is_ something wrong."

"No, nothing wrong, just we, um, I wanted to talk to you about her."

"She can be a handful," her father said, chuckling lightly. "Her inquisitiveness, though somewhat charming, can often be intrusive. Are you ready to send her back home? I understand from the news that it looks as though there won't be many months more of the fighting. And after Sam's bout of pneumonia a month ago, I'm betting she's wearing herself out with the work."

Foyle took another sip of his drink as Mr. Stewart rambled on in his assumptions, including the one about Sam's pneumonia. They chose to keep her illness quiet, what with the complications from the anthrax. The secret had to be kept; they didn't want to upset more people than was necessary with top-secret bioengineering. Foyle cringed. _God, what a shock the man was about to have._ "No. The last thing I want is for Sam to leave Hastings and return home."

"Oh, really? Well, what is your concern?"

"It's not a... concern, Mr. Stewart. Sam was sick for a couple of weeks and needed to take even more time off from work after she left hospital. I've been visiting her often. Taking her out to dinner and making sure she's all right."

"She seems to have got over the illness well."

"Yes, she has, but um, well, the reason we're here is that, I, um… I've grown fond of Sam over the years, even more so in the last few weeks. Last night, after dinner, Sam, in her straightforward, direct way, asked if I was courting her."

Mr. Stewart guffawed and almost started to laugh outright but was stopped by Foyle's serious expression. He lowered his glass to his desk and asked, "And... are you?"

"Yes. That is, it began without either of us realizing that's where we were headed."

Mr. Stewart sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together, resting them on his chest. "So, you're here to... what? Ask for my permission?"

"In a word? Yes."

Mr. Stewart leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. He started to say something, then fell quiet.

"I should let you know," Foyle began, as he watched Mr. Stewart struggling for something to say, "that this isn't something that developed only over the last few weeks."

"Really? You've been working with Sam for four years. How long would you say this has been _developing_?"

Foyle inhaled deeply, taking a moment to find the words necessary to convince Sam's father that this wasn't some sort of an inappropriate _affair_. "Probably since the beginning. Sam's easy disposition, her chattiness, and inquisitiveness were what I noticed from the start, but it wasn't until this last year that I realized that Sam meant more to me than just a subordinate or even a friend."

"There's more than twenty years between the two of you. You never saw her as a daughter? Is that not a concern?"

Foyle couldn't help but chuckle. "No, definitely not as a daughter, which is something Sam and I discussed last night. She also needed the assurance that I never thought of her as a daughter, and as I told her, I _tried_ to see her in that light, but… it was useless. And I really can't see her not being a part of my life."

Mr. Stewart stared intently at the younger man's face. "I never thought that Sam would find a future with a… more mature man. I'm sure she's told you that there is a large age difference between her mother and me as well. Maybe that influenced her." He quieted a moment, staring at his desk in thought. "Her letters have always been nothing but cheery while informative, even when she was sick. She was that way as a child. But during her teenage years—" He stopped abruptly and eyed Foyle studiously before giving himself a slight shake. "There was a time when she wasn't as… well, as sunny as she is now. But, she's... grown out of that and done well for herself these past several years, finally coming into her own."

"Yes, she has."

Both men grew quiet, each sipping his drink. Mr. Stewart lifted his head from staring down into his glass, contemplating his decision. Looking at his daughter's boss and now companion of choice, he said, "I really can't say no to her or to you, if she's truly happy. That's all her mother, brothers, and I could ever ask for her. Is she really happy?"

"I think she is, but in this matter I won't speak for her. You'll have to ask her," Foyle suggested.

"How long can you both stay?" Mr. Stewart asked.

"We had planned on staying through dinner, if you'd like," Foyle answered.

"Yes, I think that is an excellent idea."

Foyle took another sip of his Scotch.

"I must, as her father, ask one more question, though."

Foyle nodded.

"Have you and she been…intimate?" he asked.

Foyle shifted uneasily in his chair. The topic wasn't unwarranted, but certainly not welcome. Downing the last of his drink, he answered her father. "No. We only shared a kiss last night, after our discussion. And we won't… unless we decide to marry."

Mr. Stewart sighed audibly, obviously relieved. "I am relieved that she has found someone mature enough who can make her happy… and put up with her sometimes all too _sunny_ disposition. There was a time I feared it would never happen."

Foyle smiled. _This was easier than I thought. _"And I am just as relieved that you approve."

Both men chuckled and stood to shake hands. It was time to return to the house to inform Sam and her mother.

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><p>They'd just left the vicarage and were pulling back onto the main road. The sun hadn't yet set when Sam started chirping. "I can't believe how lovely dinner was tonight. My father looked extremely pleased and I thought if we didn't keep the conversation going, my mother was going to start weeping."<p>

Foyle grinned at Sam's apropos description of her mother. She was genuinely happy for her daughter, but certainly tearful. It hadn't escaped his notice that she seemed like a mother who was giving away her daughter on her wedding day. Some men might have been put off by it, but Foyle had enjoyed it. Their relationship could move forward at their own pace and they could be open about it. His overt attentiveness since her illness hadn't gone unnoticed by his sergeant. Though he gave the man credit for keeping quiet, he knew that Milner had an inkling of what had been developing between his boss and co-worker.

She hmm'd in acceptance. "So, Sir—"

"Sam." He shot her an amused glance.

"Sorry. I do love being able to address you as Christopher, but I also still like calling you 'Sir.' Besides, it's habit."

Foyle shook his head and grinned. "Go on, what were you going to say?"

"What exactly did my father say to you, Sir?"

Foyle took off his hat and set it on the seat between them. "He wanted to know how long we'd been involved, or I should say, how long I've thought of you as something other than a daughter."

"Oh."

"Hmm. He also asked whether we'd considered the difference in our ages."

Sam nodded, but said nothing.

"He also wondered if you were happy."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I couldn't speak for you."

"Oh." She stole a glance at him. "I am. I'm… as you said earlier today, contented. OK, well, not exactly contented… more like deliriously ecstatic," she laughed.

He shared in her laughter. They were definitely on the same page, and Foyle had gathered that Sam's mother and father had felt that during the afternoon and through dinner. They'd spent the rest of the day in the house, he and her father chatting amiably and playing a game of chess, while Sam helped her mother prepare dinner. Foyle knew that Sam didn't think herself much of a cook, but she was definitely good at helping with the preparation. When she'd stayed at his place after her billet had been bombed, she'd cooked the one meal, which _was_ quite delicious, but on the other two nights, she gladly helped him prepare the meals and clean up afterwards. It suddenly occurred to Foyle that Sam might be interested to know what else her father had said about her during their conversation.

"You know, your father is quite proud of you."

She blushed. "Really? How so?"

"He told me he thought you'd done well for yourself these past few years; something about finally coming into your own. I gather he thought you were quite the wild thing in your teenage years. Almost seemed a little worried."

Sam didn't reply. She grew quiet all of a sudden. Foyle, expecting a quick rejoinder from her, was surprised to see her frowning. Before he could ask about it, it was gone.

"I wouldn't say _wild_, Sir."

"Really? What would you call it then?"

He watched something flicker in her eyes, something disconcerting. He then noticed the tight grip she had on the steering wheel. It was at that moment that he realized that her father had seemed to tense when he'd mentioned his daughter's teenage years.

"I wasn't a happy teenager. I guess you might say, politely, I wasn't… sociable."

Foyle's brows rose at her description of herself. Something had clearly changed her from the happy child to the teenager she described, and then again to the young woman she was now.

"Care to discuss it?"

"No," she replied sharply.

Foyle almost asked again, but caught himself. He'd heard that tone of voice before, but not from her. Early in their marriage, Rosalind had once told him to mind his own business when he asked her why she hadn't wanted to go to a party to which they'd been invited. Later, he found out that the guests of honor had been close friends of hers in school, but both had betrayed her when they began dating while the man had still been walking out with Rosalind. Rosalind had believed they were going to be married.

Whatever had happened when Sam was a teenager had caused her painful memories—ones she did not wish to relive, so he let it slide and they drove a few miles in silence.

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't say that very nicely." She glanced at him. "It's in the past. I was young... or younger, and I really don't want to even think about it."

"It's all right. I can understand that," he assured her. "We all have things we'd rather not talk about."

She nodded, but didn't say anything more about it. They spent the remainder of the drive discussing her mother's ailment and her father's impressive knowledge of art. By the time they arrived back in Hastings, the strained portion of their drive had been forgotten.

When Sam parked in front of Foyle's home, he made no move to get out, just continued to watch her. Sam blushed at his intense gaze. "Sir?"

"Would you like to come in, Sam? It's still early," he offered.

She dropped her hands to her lap and gazed at him through her lowered lashes. "I, um, I'd like to, but..."

"But?" he asked.

"Is it really a good idea?"

"Yes. I think we can both manage to keep our hands to ourselves." He grinned. "Have you ever played chess?"

"Yes."

"Well then, we can have a drink and start a match."

They both exited the car and Sam asked, "Just _start_ a game?"

"Well, they can go on for awhile."

"Really?"

He was about to place the key in the latch when he noted her words and more so, her tone of voice. If her father's playing was any indication, Sam indeed knew how to play chess. "Don't be overconfident, Sam. We haven't played against each other before," he challenged.

"Hmm. This should be fun, then."

He ushered her inside, and watched her enter his home while he doffed his coat and hat. He shivered at the unexpected familial scene before his eyes. It felt as if they had just arrived home from a dinner engagement as a couple, already settled into married life.

Sam had taken a seat by the fireplace, where the chess pieces remained set from a previous game. She stared intently at the pieces, as if trying to ascertain the plays made before.

"Would you like the fire set, Sam?"

"That would be lovely," she replied, her eyes never leaving the board.

_It would seem the girl has a competitive streak, _he thought.

He stepped around her chair, his hand gliding lightly over her shoulders as he passed. He glanced down and noticed a ghost of a smile lighting her eyes and lifting the corners of her lips. After lighting the fire, he said, "Go ahead and reset it. I'll get us a drink before we wage war."

She chuckled as she began to rearrange the board. "Wouldn't it be more appropriate to call this a battle, given that we'll probably play more than once?"

He had just started to pour a drink, but paused as he considered her question and shook his head in wonder. _The girl had a quick mind._

"Yes, you're right. If we don't end it tonight, we can always take it back up tomorrow after we finish fishing."

"Jolly good."

He held both glasses in his hands as he turned to move back to her, but eyed the radio thoughtfully. After setting a glass down, he switched on the wireless, made sure it wasn't too distracting, then sat. He handed her a glass and she took it, sipping thoughtfully as she stared at the board.

"Since I set it, you should begin."

He eyed her cautiously as he sat in the opposite chair. "I suppose that's only fair."

She quirked her eyebrows and grinned mischievously.

"Oh, so that's how it is. You learn from the first play, huh?"

"Not necessarily."

He began the play with a pawn and she met his play with hers. They continued matching each other's moves for half an hour, silently sipping their drinks, occasionally looking at one another, but saying few words. As she took his bishop, the first strains of _Moonlight Serenade_ began to play on the radio and Foyle smiled reminiscently. He stood and asked Sam if she'd care for a break.

Sam nodded as she continued to stare at the board, but was easily diverted when Foyle's hand dipped in front of her eyes. He smiled gently and she accepted it as he pulled her from her seat. They met together on the far side of the chessboard, away from the fire. He pulled her close, one hand on her waist as his other hand continued to hold hers. They swayed gently from side to side, the space between them disappearing with each step. She lifted her head to gaze boldly into his eyes, enticing him to make the next move, and he didn't fail to take the bait, closing the distance and pressing his lips to hers. Christopher teased Sam's bottom lip, pulling it, nipping softly. She opened her mouth to him and he deepened the kiss. He was lost in the sweet taste of her, wanting to claim more of her. His hand on her waist slid over her back, pressing her more firmly against him, and she molded against him as if she'd been made only for him. He released her hand and grasped the back of her neck, inching her head back with his thumb as he trailed soft kisses from her cheek and onto her throat. Her soft moan of pleasure brought him back from the precipice and to reality. With one last touch of his lips to the soft skin below her ear, he whispered her name before releasing her neck. She dipped her head against his shoulder as he held her tightly against him, softly caressing her back.

She mumbled something incoherently against his neck.

"Hmm?"

"I should go."

He nodded faintly, but remained silent as he continued his caresses. Neither really wanted the night to end, but propriety dictated otherwise.

She lifted her head and met his eyes, sighing as they pressed their foreheads together. They quietly shifted so that they stood side by side, his arm about her waist as he guided her to the front door. As he opened the door, the cool air made her shiver; she hadn't brought her sweater inside.

"Here," he said, as he grabbed a light jacket from one of the hooks. He helped her with it but let his hands linger on her shoulders. He kissed the side of her head and she leaned into it. Sam started to turn to face him, but he held her firmly forward. "Go home, Sam. I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded. "Good night."

"Good night, Sam."

He watched her walk to the car and waited until she drove off before shutting the door behind her, a sigh escaping his lips as he leant back against it. It had been a long time since he'd felt the stirrings of pleasure as he had tonight. "What am I going to do with you, Sam?" he muttered as he made his way into his living room to put out the fire—figuratively and literally.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Next installment for you, Cammie! Thank you for the review.

Thanks to my beta's for all their help. They're the best!

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><p>The next morning Foyle woke early to the sun just rising in the eastern sky. After completing his morning ablutions, he set to work putting together a small picnic basket, including a blanket and a bottle of wine he'd kept hidden away. After assuring himself that all was set, he sat down to review the case notes from Milner on the recent burglary at the Hamilton's summerhouse. Sam wouldn't be arriving until noon, so he carefully read Milner's recommendations, then made notations of his own. The case and thoughts of Milner's work reminded him that now that he'd gained the approval of Sam's father and mother, he should say something to the young detective. He knew Milner had an inkling of how things were developing, but had honorably kept his thoughts to himself. Foyle had made the right choice of sergeant five years ago, Milner having proven himself an intelligent and observant investigator. Foyle would honor him the same way by taking him into his confidence, thus ensuring that no untoward rumors would spread about Sam and his attentions to her. <em>Perhaps I'll stop in this evening and have a word with him.<em>

He glanced at the clock. Sam would be arriving soon. He retrieved the picnic basket from the larder and set it on the floor in the hall. If the rising temperature this morning was any indication, the afternoon would be quite fine and warm. Foyle had dressed casually in a long-sleeved, button-down shirt and a cardigan. His tackle was prepared and already sitting by the front door. Sam was the only missing ingredient to their planned outing. As if on cue, he heard a knock at the door—one he recognized all too well. _Yes, this was going to be an excellent day._

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><p>Foyle directed Sam to his favorite fishing spot just outside of Hastings. The area was mostly wide-open around the river's mouth, but a secluded area, surrounded by trees on three sides, was only a few hundred meters from where he usually fished. After parking, Sam followed Foyle to help unpack the boot of the car. She'd remembered her waders and had appropriately dressed in slacks and a pair of boat shoes. Foyle had forgotten to warn her of the possibility of gnats, but once he saw her long-sleeved shirt, he couldn't help smiling. It showed that her interest in fishing was not just her way of finagling time with him; she meant business.<p>

As her waders had somehow lodged in the far back corner of the boot, Sam had to reach for them. Even with her height, she couldn't quite grab them. Foyle, seeing her struggle, tried to help, placing a hand on her back to let her know he was there. The contact made a shiver course through her body, one that he easily felt. Pretending not to notice, he reached in from his side and was able to tug the waders and pull them forward.

Before he could pull out from the boot, Sam leaned further forward and gave him a peck on his cheek, murmuring a quick thank-you before up righting herself, blushing becomingly.

Foyle straightened then closed the lid of the boot and replied, "You're welcome."

It all seemed so awfully proper, considering their kiss the night before. Foyle wasn't sure why, but he felt as if they'd started over and were in the beginning stages of a courtship rather than already well into it. Something was amiss.

During their drive to the riverbank they'd made small talk, but Sam continually averted her eyes. He had attempted a time or two to meet them, but she'd turned her head to look out the window. Then he'd asked her how she'd slept, and watched her bite her lip, deep in thought. She'd told him she slept well—that is, until she woke up from a nightmare just after dawn. But she didn't want to talk about it.

As he watched her now, setting her bait and donning her waders in a very businesslike manner, he realized she was acting as if the last few weeks had never occurred, except for the small peck on his cheek.

He'd been getting used to the playfulness between them, reacting to her flirting in ways he'd only dreamt of doing the past several years. He wasn't about to go back to the way it had been; not when they'd come this far already.

He approached her cautiously, almost stealthily, like a hunter coming up on his prey. The analogy was not lost on him. "Sam."

"Hmm?" she replied as she fiddled with the clasps on her waders.

He grasped her elbow gently, getting her attention. "Is something wrong?"

She asked, a little startled, "What?"

He fumbled for the words but wasn't really sure how to address her change in behavior without sounding callous. "Is everything alright? You seem a little distant."

Her eyes grew round and she licked her bottom lip before rolling it between her teeth. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, then added, "No… no, just… I'm a little tired. I slept well, just not wonderfully. I'm probably just a bit antsy from the night…" she trailed off.

"It might help to talk about it," he offered softly.

She shook her head. "It was just a nightmare. I don't really remember much about it, just the feeling I had after waking. It'll go away." She placed her unfettered hand on his chest and leant forward. "Really. I'm alright." Then she gave him a small kiss on the lips. She drew back and he released her elbow. "I don't get nightmares very often, not like I used to when I was younger. So, I guess I don't react to them very well now."

He nodded, understanding that feeling all too well. He'd had recurring nightmares nearly every night just after Rosalind passed away, and oftentimes they involved losing Andrew. They were quite disturbing, their effect often lasting throughout the day.

She looked him over and laughed. "You'd better catch up or I'm liable to steal all the fish away from you today!"

He chuckled and turned to retrieve his tackle and waders. Once he was properly attired, he joined her at the river's edge where she'd waited patiently for him. They entered together with several meters between them. Before letting his first fly out, he watched her expertly cast her line, arching his brow in concern. _She just might steal all the fish, anyway._ He grinned. _But who would blame them?_

His thoughts proved prophetic an hour later, when he'd finally caught his first fish to her three. Though small, they were large enough to keep. Then, half an hour later, Sam shouted as she caught something larger and struggled with her line. He waded over to her to help pull it in. But his hand slipped and the line went taut again, out of his reach. He maneuvered around her, his chest pressed against her back as his arms came around and helped hold onto her pole. She yelped at the contact, but pressed firmly against him a second later as they struggled with the line. With success, they pulled in a sizable and heavy trout.

Sam's delight in her catch was obvious from the large grin on her face and her "what a whopper" comments as they netted the fish. After settling it in his bag with the other four fish, they continued for another half-hour. Foyle successfully tagged another two trout of rather good plumpness.

"Shall we call it a day, Sam?" he called to her.

She nodded and began reeling in her line. They met and again looked over their catches, Sam with a bright smile as she fingered her larger trout. "Jolly good, don't you think?"

"Definitely!" he rejoined, smiling back at her.

"I'm hungry," she announced.

"So am I. I'll settle these if you'll grab the blanket from the back seat and spread it out." He looked around and pointed to the glade behind them. She nodded as she began her trek back to the car, already fingering the clasps on her waders.

After settling the fish in his bag, at the edge of the water, and taking off his waders, he joined her at the car. She'd lain the blanket out and had come back to retrieve the basket. Before she could grasp the handle, though, he plucked it out of her reach, waggling a finger and 'tsk'ing at her. "I've got it. You just march yourself over there and get settled."

She rolled her eyes but did as she was told, settling herself with her feet tucked beneath her, rolling her shirt sleeves up past her elbows. He joined her with the basket, less than a meter away, and started pulling out the items he'd packed earlier that morning. When he drew out the bottle of wine, he heard a hum of appreciation from Sam. This time he rolled his eyes at _her _and mumbled something about a lush. She gasped, having heard him, and laughingly swatted his arm.

They lunched on hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham, bread, and cheese as well as a few glasses of wine. The sun was past its crest, just over the tops of the trees, lending them a little shade.

Foyle asked her if she was feeling better. She nodded and hummed as she made a small sandwich. He watched her twirl her glass in her hand, making sunlight glint off the shiny surface. Sam sipped the last of her wine and placed the glass down near the basket.

"Do you think Andrew will have a hard time with this?"

Foyle had just been about to sip his glass of wine and paused with it at his lips, looking over the rim at her. He finished taking the sip and set it down next to her empty glass. "About what?"

She looked askance at him. "Us."

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose he might. You're his age, young enough to be my daughter and his sister. You stepped out with him. He could have lingering feelings for you."

Sam's eyebrows shot up at his reference to Andrew's feelings. "You really believe he might? Even after his breaking it off with me in a letter?"

Foyle considered a moment, but nodded in answer. "He most certainly might. If you'll remember, when he left he'd been dealing with some rather large and emotional issues. And although he was flying off to a somewhat safer duty, the feelings would still be there. No matter what decisions he made then, he might have regrets."

"Hmm." Sam placed her hands behind her on the blanket, propping herself forward, staring up at the blue sky, her knees bent in front of her. Foyle was reminded of the constellation Cassiopeia. "So, I suppose you'll have to have a discussion with him _when_ he comes home." Her emphasis was not lost on him.

"I imagine so."

He watched her pucker her lips in distaste. He could clearly see what she was thinking. She didn't like the idea any more than he did. Andrew was still a boy when he joined the RAF, and though he'd probably come back more mature than he was when he left, he would still react with some of the immaturity of his youth. His reaction to his father's blossoming relationship with Sam could cause some major contention between them. Of course, it could go completely the opposite way.

Sam dropped to the blanket, lying prone. Her face still staring up at the clear blue sky, a few wisps of springtime clouds developing overhead. She licked her lips and Foyle couldn't resist the urge to kiss her. Lying on his side, propping himself up with his arm, he lightly caressed her bare forearm, diverting her attention from the sky to him. The lazy smile that greeted him tugged at his heart. Sam was and always had been a breath of fresh air. And he didn't know what he'd done to deserve her. She scooted a bit closer, turning on her side to match him. They faced each other, tenderly eyeing one another. His fingers trailed along her arm, skirting up the short space to her cheek. He caressed the blush that suddenly appeared before tucking a curl behind her ear. "Come closer, Sam," he whispered.

She scooted a little closer as his hand left her cheek to tug on her hip. With mere inches of space between them, he pressed his lips to hers, his gently parting as she opened to him. She'd braced herself with a hand on his arm that soon traveled upward to cup his head, her fingers splaying in the curls at the back of his neck. His body pressed into hers, pushing her back against the blanket. He abandoned her mouth for the sweet taste of her skin at her chin, raining kisses onto her throat, suckling gently on the hollow at its base.

His hand at her hip had trailed along her side, his thumb smoothing circles over her rib cage, sweeping the sensitive area at the base of her breast. She gasped at the feelings flooding her overly heightened senses. Foyle was astounded at the passion that had lain dormant in his young driver, passion that made him forget their surroundings and the innocence of the woman he held. His hand inched upward of its own volition. He caught her gasp with a kiss as his thumb grazed over her breast. Her taut body arched upward, responding to a primal need that went way beyond her years.

Just as his touch had lit a fire in her, she suddenly pulled away, startled, pushing on his chest, gasping for air and staring at him with wide, fear-filled eyes.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Wow... love, love, love the reviews. It's the best motivation!

I'd like to send a big ol' shout to my betas who have motivated me and pushed me into finishing this fic. I would never have posted this without their attention and inspiration. Thank you!

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><p>It was a powerful feeling, this need within her, to hold him, to press against him with every inch of her body. His hand that was touching her hip and caressing her side was doing delicious things to her senses and she wanted him never to stop. His lips on her neck suckled and teased, leaving her panting. She wondered if he'd leave a mark. She'd of course seen marks on other girls, but had never quite understood how it happened. Now she did—and why they would giggle when displaying a mark or two.<p>

She was thoroughly enjoying herself and wanting it never to end when Foyle's hand moved higher, caressing her breast and causing her body to buck with his attentions. Never had she felt anything so pleasurable, so satisfying. Way beyond the tender, chaste kisses Joe and Andrew had pressed to her lips. It was the most exhilarating feeling she'd ever felt in her entire life. But then the weight of his body on hers, one leg holding hers down, and the evidence of his desire pressing against her released oppressive, painful memories, jerking her nerves to alertness. She broke the kiss and pushed against him.

Before her nerves got the better of her, she realized where she was, and with whom. A heavier fear of discovery made her struggle against the fear and she tried to respond less dramatically, less fearfully. Her mind raced as she attempted to cover her immediate reaction. Then the sight of the wispy clouds in the blue sky above and the trees swaying in the gentle breeze gave her a clear option.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

Christopher frowned, then looked up and away at the trees. He squinted as he tried to hear what she had. But there was nothing. "No. Did you hear something?"

"Yes." She pressed more firmly against him and sat up, causing him to do the same. It pained her to lie to him, but in her mind it was the lesser of two evils. "I thought I heard a branch or… or… a twig snap." The loss of heat from his body and the cool breeze now made waves of goosebumps rise on her arms. She shivered.

He stood and helped her up. They looked around a bit, but saw nothing. The only sound came from the birds nesting in the trees. She started to bend down to pick up their picnic leftovers, when his arm caught her middle and he pulled her back against him. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to let her previous fears come to light.

He held her tight, swaying softly in the afternoon breeze. "I'm sorry, Sam. Again, I let things get out of hand."

She shushed him. "I believe there were two of us involved."

Foyle pressed his head against hers. She could feel his warm breath on her neck through her curls. She loved this feeling—his gentle yet sometimes firm caresses; being allowed the luxury of touching him. She surmised that her earlier fear had everything to do with her nightmare that morning… the one she'd lied about, the one she remembered too clearly.

"Still, I shouldn't have let it get that far," he insisted.

She nodded, agreeing with him but resolving that it wouldn't go that far again. She could never let him know what had happened to her when she was fifteen. She remembered the looks from friends, family, and members of the parish, and the thought of him looking at her with such pity—well, she just couldn't bear it. But she hated lying to him, even if they were little lies. She'd have to find a way to keep her secret without any more of them.

Sam felt his hand pat her on the hip as he slipped his arm out from around her. Steadying herself, she turned to face him, pulling on the collar of his cardigan to bring him closer. Smiling, she pressed a kiss to his lips and muttered, "You're incorrigible, sir." This time he patted her on her behind, which caused her to yelp and giggle.

"Shall we pack up and head home?"

She smiled shyly, noting his casually inclusive use of the word "home." Maybe one day they would call the same place home. _If I can ever get past this fear_.

* * *

><p>Once they arrived at his home, Sam insisted on helping to clean the fish, although Foyle resisted, surprising her with his grumblings. She'd never thought of him as chauvinistic, and his refusal to let her help with the task seemed uncharacteristic of him. She nearly caved in, but suddenly remembered something her mother had once told her. <em>Men may like to believe that we are helpless, even <em>insisting_ upon it, but they need reminding once in a while that _we're_ all-powerful._ Sam snatched two of the fish from the bag and smirked at him before conceding that she'd "clean the two and you can clean the rest… if it'll make you feel better."

It must not have, because he grumbled some more about sharp knives. Still she held her ground. He made a move to help her but she turned her back to him as he watched her make her first slice into the fish. His attempts to interfere stopped as she continued expertly dressing the fish.

"Who taught you to fish _and_ clean them so well?" he asked incredulously.

"I learned by watching my dad teach my brothers. When I was finally _allowed_ to clean my first fish, my father only had to show me how to properly hold the knife for best effect. I had the knowledge, just not the experience," she explained, but bit her lip quickly as she spoke the words—for she found herself relating this statement to her one and only experience of sex.

Foyle hadn't caught on, though. He asked if she ever heard from her brothers.

"They're not big writers. I know Mum has received a couple of letters, but nothing more. I suppose 'no news is good news' or, at least, it is less disconcerting. I read a letter from Stephen while we were there, and I think he described far too much, at least for my mother."

"He went into detail about the fighting?" Foyle asked.

"Yep… a little too much," she sighed. "Stephen always did enjoy the more gruesome stories when we were children. I'm all for a good murder investigation, but I'll leave the gruesome details to others."

She finished de-boning her second fish and watched Foyle finish his second as well. She reached for the third, but he batted her hand away with a glint in his eye. So instead, she turned to the picnic basket and started unpacking the contents. He directed her where to put each of the items, and the basket. By the time she'd finished and began to clean up, he'd finished the last fish and was preparing them for the cooler.

They made their way into the living room, settling before the chess board once again. She'd already started eyeing the game they'd started last night as they sat down, and quickly made her move before actually taking her seat. "Checkmate," she proclaimed.

He leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. He shook his head but smiled. "The next game won't be so easy." She pouted playfully, but he didn't take the bait.

"I did try to warn you," she teased, then stood and asked, "Do you want something to drink?"

He blinked. "I should be asking you that."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I only thought, given that you _lost_…" she drawled. "I'll play hostess while you set up the next game."

Foyle conceded her point as she walked toward the decanters. "I'll just have the whiskey with a little water."

Sam poured herself the same and came back as he was setting the last pieces. She made her first move, then waited, taking a quick sip of her drink. They took turns swiftly moving their pieces for the first few simple moves. After sending her bishop out, she settled back in her chair to watch Foyle study the board. It was late afternoon now, and a fine layer of stubble had started to rise on his jaw. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, giving her a glimpse of his forearms. She'd never had the privilege before, always having seen him in his suits and ties, or at the very least, in a shirt with long sleeves.

She recalled the feeling of his arms around her at the river's edge as he'd helped her reel in the trout, taking her by surprise. Her breath hitched at another memory—of his arm catching her around her waist later, just before they'd headed back. Her mind was a bit scrambled at the time, but the warmth and comfort of the strength in his gentle hold on her had made her knees quake. She _loved_ the touching, the cuddling and most of all, the kissing. Once forbidden activities to her, they now were all before her, ready for the taking. But she wondered how long it could go on before it inevitably progressed to the next level.

Sam finally lifted her eyes from his forearms to his face and was startled to find two blue eyes meeting hers. She'd failed to notice that his attention had left the board and he'd been watching her… watch him.

"Yes?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

He shook his head and just smiled. "Nothing," he replied as he glanced back at the board.

They fell into an easy silence.

During her turn, Foyle had traversed the room and refreshed his drink while turning on the radio. He'd asked Sam if she wanted another drink, but she shook her head, her concentration seeming to be fully on the board.

It wasn't really.

When he'd switched the radio on, her mind raced back to the night before and how easily the mood could and probably would change with the melodious rhapsodies floating on the air from the romantic crooners on the radio. She'd have to remain on guard for the rest of the night. She didn't want to continue lying to him and making up stupid reasons for her sudden reactions. The last thing she would ever want was for him to lose his trust in her. Being caught in a lie would be disastrous. It would be much better to just avoid any situations that might cause her to react untowardly.

But that was easier said than done, especially when he started asking her about her favorite pastimes as a child as he lit the fireplace. He even asked her when and how she'd learned to drive.

"My eldest brother, Thomas, taught me. He thought it would be a good idea to get it done while I was younger rather than trying to teach me later. He was thoughtful that way… still is, I suppose." She chewed on her lip for a second, then continued, "I haven't seen any of my brothers in almost six years. I miss them terribly."

"I take it you were close?" Foyle asked.

"We were _very_ close," she explained. "They went _everywhere_ with me," she sighed dramatically, almost irritably. _More like bodyguards,_ she thought. "Wouldn't let me out of their sight, really. Thomas taught me to drive, and between Stephen and Dad I learned to fish." Her tone of voice belied her love for her brothers. She almost sounded annoyed—if not for that little bit of tender inflection in her earlier mention of the six years without them, he would have thought she was.

She loved her brothers dearly. But while there was a time when she desperately needed their attention and protection, it didn't take long for the hovering and endless questions as to her whereabouts to become bothersome. _But he doesn't know that, nor does he need to, _she thought.

"I really can't wait for them to come home," she mused. "I'm supposing Mum will want to make a great feast and have a full day of nothing but family at home," she said wistfully, imagining them in their uniforms—and their possible thoughts on hers. At the same time, she imagined Foyle there, watching with amusement as she sparred with her older siblings. It occurred to her that she expected him to be there, as if he were already part of the family. She looked up at him a moment, then continued, "You should come too."

He'd made his move, sitting back in his chair with his drink dangling in his light grasp. He thoughtfully considered her suggestion, then nodded and agreed, "I'd like that."

She grinned, happy with his agreeing to attend such an intimate family gathering. Distracted by the turn of conversation, she eyed the chess pieces, unsure which move to make. A bit giddy from his concurrence, she suddenly felt hurried and impatient; this in turn caused her to make a rather rash move on the board. It was quickly followed by Foyle's checkmate.

"Damn!" she exclaimed.

Foyle's brows lifted. "Really, Sam? That bad?" he teased.

"Yes, really!" Her eyes darted over the board studiously. "How did I not see that?" She'd shown Foyle her competitive side, and he must have enjoyed it because he was smiling warmly at her.

"Maybe because you were easily distracted."

She rolled her lip between her teeth and nodded acquiescently. "Yep, _easily_ done," she agreed. Smiling brightly, she leaned over the board, batted her eyelashes teasingly and added, "…with you sitting across from me, your shirtsleeves rolled up, and looking a bit devilish in the firelight."

He, too, leaned forward over the board, his face mere inches from hers, and just like the night before, he held out his hand to her. She looked at it cautiously, carefully considering whether she should take it or not.

She did.

He helped her out of her seat, but instead of dancing, he guided her to the sofa. They sat next to each other, close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from his thigh next to hers. He was still holding her hand. She'd expected him to lean in and kiss her, but instead, he shifted so that he could see her face. She was taken aback by the concerned look on his face, fearing that she'd been found out.

"Sam, there's something I wanted to discuss with you and get your thoughts on before I acted."

_Oh, maybe not,_ she thought. "What about?"

"We go back to work tomorrow, and I don't know if you're aware of it, but Sergeant Milner seems to have noticed that we've been spending more time together."

She nodded, sighing with relief. She knew Paul might have an inkling that something had shifted between her and their boss, as the sergeant had hinted at something just a few days ago, but without actually asking.

"Well, I was thinking that, as your father has given his approval, we might do well to take Paul into our confidence."

"You want to tell him that we're stepping out."

"Yes."

She blinked. On first thought, it didn't seem to be a problem, but she wanted to give it more consideration. Milner's knowing about them could change some things— one in particular was her position as Foyle's driver. But all things considered, Milner wouldn't object to her working there while stepping out with their boss. Suddenly Sam realized that telling her parents, and now Milner, about them would mean that their relationship would take another turn. It wouldn't be only between the two of them anymore.

Still, after contemplating what would happen if he told Milner about them, she agreed with Foyle. "I think it might be a good idea. I really don't want to hide anything, but…" she bit her lip. "But I just really hate losing our little bit of privacy. It has been lovely to be with you... without worrying about what anyone else thinks."

He shook his head, but in agreement. "I don't want to lose that, either. Nevertheless, telling him would give us some room to talk more freely around him. We wouldn't have to watch our words so carefully, and if we made plans for an evening or lunch, we wouldn't have to worry about him knowing."

She nodded.

"So, I should tell him."

"Should we both tell him, together?"

He considered it a moment. "Either way works. But let's play it by ear. It doesn't necessarily have to be some grand announcement."

"No, it doesn't."

Decision made, Foyle eased back against the sofa, one arm on the back, propping his head up with his hand. He was still facing her, considering her, as if he wasn't sure what to do with her next.

She laughed quietly.

"Hmm?"

"You look much too serious."

"Well..." He leaned a little closer and whispered, "This _is_ a bit serious, Sam."

Then he kissed her. There was something in the way his lips brushed against hers, or maybe it was his serious mood, but Sam felt the kiss all the way to her toes as she responded with an intensity she'd never felt before. The kiss made her want something… more. She wasn't quite sure what, but it seemed just out of her reach.

His hand was once again at her side and she'd grasped his face with both of her hands. This intense longing, of needing him overtook her senses. She suddenly felt very warm, as if standing in the hot August sunshine. He pressed against her back, pulling her closer to him. She had to shift her entire body to meet his demanding pressure on her. As if on cue, he then moved her backward onto the sofa and she found herself lying rather than sitting. His hands were doing delicious things to her body, tracing every line and curve as if he were trying to commit her figure to memory.

Her hands left his face and began their own exploration of his body, sliding down his arms, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his shirt. Her hands grasped his forearms, feeling them as she had so wanted to earlier, during the chess game. As before, during their picnic, his hand lovingly cupped her breast, his thumb grazing the hardened nub beneath her shirt and bra. She gasped at the intensity of the feelings he invoked in her. She moaned softly as his lips left hers to place light kisses on the bare skin peeking out of the V of her shirt, just at the soft curves of her breasts. Of its own volition her one free leg entwined with his, rubbing up and down its length, as if trying to draw him in closer.

This time, she heard a deep, guttural moan from him as he withdrew his weight from her body, placing his hands on either side of her to support his weight. She opened her eyes at the sudden loss of heat. He was panting heavily, perspiration dotting his brow.

"We need to…" he gasped for air between the words, "stop, Sam."

"But—"

He placed a finger at her lips, shushing her as he shook his head. "If we don't stop now, I won't be able to later."

Then her senses came back to full alert. She'd allowed him close again; but this time, she hadn't heard any of the earlier warning bells go off in her mind. She gulped, suddenly shivering as she realized how close she'd come to letting things get out of hand.

When she nodded her understanding, he sat up and helped her sit, too, at the same time cradling her against his chest. Her breathing hadn't evened out yet, so while she laid her head against his shoulder, he gently rubbed her back with one hand while touching her cheek with the other. She'd wrapped an arm around his middle, holding him tightly.

She was tempted to tell him, to just blurt out her insecurities, her secret. _Maybe then things could progress without the hesitations. Maybe I'll feel emboldened enough to let things proceed._ She mentally shook herself. While she'd enjoyed the kisses and touches—and enjoyed the sensations they brought her—she knew there was much more involved. If she let things progress, she might not be able to handle it. She remembered well her reaction to her brother, Thomas, not long after her second incident, when all he'd tried to do was give her a hug. She'd nearly broken his nose. She couldn't take the risk of reacting so violently with the man she loved so dearly. He surely would be dismayed by her reaction.

She gulped for air, starting to panic. Fear and painful memories flooded her senses. _I can't do it. What will he think of me? How can I be a proper wife if we can't even have sex?_ With each question, her breathing became more rapid, heavier.

Foyle's soothing circles on her back were not having the effect she or he would have expected. He began to quietly shush her as she gasped for much-needed air. His calm voice pulled her back into the real world, the world where the man she loved was doing his best to steady her. Finally, her breathing evened and her thoughts quieted.

Moments later he leaned down to place a kiss on the top of her head and asked, "Are you all right now, Sam?"

She responded with a nod, then pushed herself up and away from him. "I'm sorry, I suppose I'm just a bit nervous."

As soon as the words left her mouth she knew she'd lied again, even if it wasn't intended as a lie. She could see in his eyes that he thought she was nervous because of her innocence, that he believed she was a virgin.

"It's all right, Sam." He pulled her close to him again, cradling her as before. "There's no need to rush. I hope you don't feel that I'm rushing you."

She shook her head, mumbling her "no." What he assumed and what she thought were two very different things. She wasn't what he thought she was. And no matter what she did, if they got married, he'd find out. If she told him anything but the truth of it, she'd again be dissembling. There would be no way for her to justify it without disclosing to him what had happened. And her shame would then be known to him.

She simply could not let him find out _after _they were married; she couldn't bear to do that to him. She'd have to tell him before. _But how? God, _she thought, frustrated. _I wish there was someone I could talk to about this—so that I might know what to do._

TBC..._  
><em>


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Awesome reviews. I hope that my depictions of what Sam is going through is appropriate. It's been over 10 years for her. I don't mind critical feedback regarding that, so send it on.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Milner was sitting in his office when Foyle walked by. After a few steps, Foyle stopped, turned slightly in deliberation, and then returned to peek into his sergeant's office. "Got a minute?" he asked, nodding toward his own office.<p>

Milner smiled and nodded then placed the paperwork in his hands onto the desk. He followed Foyle into his office and took a seat, waiting for his boss to divest himself of his jacket and hat.

Foyle was musing over what he was going to say to the younger officer as he recalled his conversation with Sam the night before. He'd told her he'd play it by ear, but for some reason, Foyle felt the need to tell his sergeant straight away all about his newly admitted, blossoming love for his young driver.

Milner had said something about their recent case and about a new Home Guard volunteer who had discovered the body. Although Foyle was distracted and he hadn't actually been listening, he 'hmm'd to his sergeant as if he had.

"Did you want to discuss something, sir?"

Foyle looked up at the young man, raising his brow and nodding silently. "I did. I, um—"

A knock at the door and then Sam's pretty face peering through interrupted him. So intent had he been on telling Milner, that he'd forgotten Sam would be following him to his office after parking the car.

"Good morning, Sam," Milner greeted his friend.

"Good morning to you, sir."

In the meantime, Foyle thought of a distraction and mentioned tea and biscuits. Knowing that there were no biscuits in the kitchen, he reminded Sam of the fact and sent her off to the shop to get some for the office.

As she left, closing the door behind her, she ducked her head back in, eyeing her boss behind Milner's back, and winked. She'd understood perfectly well that she was being sent on an errand for other than the obvious reasons.

Foyle refrained from smiling back at her and continued his discussion with his sergeant. "I, um, wanted to discuss something of a personal nature with you, Paul." He fell silent, uncertain how to continue.

While he and Milner had developed a well-ordered working relationship, personal information was rarely discussed between them. This felt awkward.

"Does this have anything to do with Sam, sir?" Milner offered.

_Oh, thank God,_ Foyle thought. "Yes, it does. I, um, well… Sam and I have been spending a lot of time together the last few weeks." He was staring at the paperwork on his desk rather than at his colleague, but he looked up to see Milner smiling knowingly at him. "Oh, do stop, will you."

Milner couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his throat. "Sir, are you trying to tell me that you and Sam have developed a … _personal_ relationship?"

Foyle nodded and answered, "Yes. We, erm, we visited with her parents on Saturday in Lyminster."

Milner's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? It's got to that point?"

Foyle frowned, not understanding at first, and then he realized that his sergeant meant an engagement. He shook his head and waved his hand. "No, not that… yet. I just thought it more appropriate to ask her father if I could… court her… step out with her."

Milner nodded in understanding, smilingly asking, "How, um, how did Sam take the news?"

Foyle stared silently at the younger man as he felt a flush creep up his face. "She, um, responded with the enthusiasm expected of a young woman stepping out with a beau."

"I _dare_say," Milner said, laughing.

Foyle looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"She's been waiting for five long years, sir. I wouldn't have expected any other kind of reaction."

Foyle huffed softly, but he was smiling as he did. _So, Milner had seen it from the beginning._ "Was it that obvious?"

Milner then shook his head, pressing his lips together in a firm line. "No, sir. Not _you,_ anyway. Sam… well, Sam was always enthusiastic about working with you, but there were hints that she thought of you as something more. It wasn't until her house was bombed that I started seeing something more in your feelings for her."

Foyle considered for a moment what the younger man was telling him. While it was obvious to him now, he wondered how many others in their acquaintance had noticed as well.

"How did her father respond? I take it he approved?" Milner asked.

Foyle leaned forward onto his desk and told Milner about his discussion with Mr. Stewart, leaving out the bit on their level of intimacy. He also mentioned Sam's predilection for understanding the nuances of others' feelings, especially those of family members. "I think she's more astute than we've given her credit for."

"That I could have told you," Milner agreed.

A knock on the door interrupted their discussion and Sam walked in with a tray of biscuits and tea. After serving them and sharing a knowing smile with both men, she sat docilely in the only other vacant chair in the room next to Milner and across the desk from their boss.

Milner leaned over and quietly said to her, "Congratulations, Sam. He's a lucky man."

"Yes, he is, isn't he?" She smirked at her boss.

* * *

><p>The news had reached Hastings: A declaration that the war was over would be announced soon, possibly the next day. Sam had been preparing herself to leave the employ of the MTC and accordingly, the police force as Foyle's driver. That was disheartening to say the least, but she was consoled by the fact that she had the heart of the man in her hands and that things would continue to grow between them. The weeks had ticked by and they'd grown accustomed to sitting quietly by the fire at night, sharing a drink, playing a game of chess, or just reading. They'd also enjoyed necking on the sofa, by the river and even once in the car, but Sam had become attuned to when they were starting to go too far, and would distract him with talk of other things. Not once since that afternoon on his sofa, the day after asking her father for permission to court her, had he had to end their activity before it became too heated. Sam couldn't rely on his doing so. While she trusted him, she just couldn't take that chance.<p>

They'd spent their times alone together discussing childhood dreams, desires for travel, regrets of the past—they'd even spoken a bit about marriage. Though both were on the same page about courting with the intention of marriage, Foyle had no clue that Sam was harboring forebodings about it. Or, not so much about being married, but fulfilling the marriage contract. _Okay, having sex then_! she'd silently shouted to herself.

And tonight would be no different. She was sitting quietly next to him on the sofa, reading Foyle's copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ as he looked over a case file. Suddenly he put the paperwork down and looked at her. She finished the sentence she was reading and looked up at him expectantly. He studied her a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

His sudden attentiveness piqued her interest. "What is it?" she asked.

"Children," he stated plainly, as if that was all she needed to understand his thoughts.

And she did.

Her eyes grew round and she felt a little light-headed. "Er… you're asking me about my feelings on wanting children?"

"Yep."

"Well, I could ask you the same. You already have one," she rejoined, throwing the ball back in his court.

He blinked.

"Do you want any more?" she asked.

He looked away, considering for a moment what having another child would mean. She knew his thoughts; they were the same ones she'd imagined him mulling over.

"I don't really know, Sam. If I—we—had a child now, I'd be in my…" He thought a moment. "seventies when he or she graduates from school. But, that's not to say that I wouldn't cherish a child should it happen."

Sam understood his meaning. He didn't want another one, but if an accident occurred, he'd love the child as if they'd planned it.

"Did you always want just one?" she asked.

It was his turn to look surprised. He'd obviously never thought about it before. "No. I'd always thought I'd have several, but Rosalind didn't. And as she was the one who would have to carry them for nine long months each, I left the decision up to her. Thinking back, it was probably the wisest choice for us."

Sam silently agreed. He'd have had to raise more than one after Rosalind died. It had been difficult enough for him raising just the one alone. She knew what it would take to rear a child. When a young girl, she'd always assumed she'd have babies, lots of them. But now, after everything, she couldn't even see having one. Still, she wanted to. She wanted that for her and for Foyle. She wanted to be able to give him a child, to watch him teach a little one the things only a father could. But to do that would mean having sex, and she still wasn't sure how she was going to handle that if they did get married.

The best course of action at this point was to say she didn't, but that would be a lie. She sighed heavily. _Damned if I do and damned if I don't_.

"I think I was like you, sir. I thought I'd want a bunch of babies. But now, with the changes in the world, after the war, I don't know. Paul and Edie are ecstatic about having theirs, but my first thought when they told us wasn't joy, but fear of possibly seeing another war and watching my son have to fight in it." Her words weren't meant to make him think about his own son, but she knew that was where his thoughts now lay. She reached over to grasp his knee. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up Andrew like that."

They hadn't heard from Andrew in many months. They didn't know where he was or even if he was alive. Foyle, thankfully, had been too distracted by their relationship and work to think too heavily about his son. He kept busy; she made sure of it.

"It's fine. I think I'd have heard something by now if any harm had come to him." He thought for a moment, then asked, "So, you don't want children?"

Sam chewed on her lip, then replied, "I love babies. But no, I don't. I don't think… I could."

And Foyle was left to think that Sam meant that she couldn't bring a child into this uncertain world.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Andrew made his welcome appearance, walking up to his dad while he was fishing. Foyle's heart jumped at seeing his son, standing in the grass on that sunny day. It was such a relief to know he was safe… and whole.<p>

He'd let Andrew know where Sam could be found, so that Andrew could assure himself that she was well. Later, Sam told Foyle about Andrew's visit with her and his desire to renew their relationship. It was as Foyle suspected. Andrew was his son and he loved him dearly, but he was sometimes too much like his father…when he'd been younger.

Sam then told him that she planned to make Andrew understand that she could give him only friendship, bringing him at least to such a point that, when Foyle had his talk with his son, Andrew would be more amenable to their established relationship.

So it was that, after festivities had broken out at the announcement that the war was over and Sam returned to the station, Foyle decided to speak with his son about Sam. She was in a very cheerful and festive mood. When everyone had left except her and Foyle, she asked him about his having driven the car to take Edie to hospital, and he felt somewhat ashamed that he had given her the wrong impression. But he wouldn't change a thing, if it meant not having her in his life. Thankfully, Sam accepted his explanation and didn't seem too put off by it.

Andrew arrived just then. Foyle knew this was not an appropriate time to bring anything up, so he sent the two younger ones off to dance, telling them he'd find them.

Sam, though happy about the festivities, was at first reluctant to leave Foyle. But his reassurance sent her off with his son to dance the night away. Foyle closed up his office, his intention being to retire with the move of the station to a new building, and left the station house.

He knew Sam was afraid he'd go home rather than join them, even though he'd promised to, but as she was talking with Andrew, Brooks, and a couple of others enjoying the music and celebrations, she spied her man standing on the periphery, watching. She tapped Andrew on the arm to get his attention, and nodded toward his father.

Not giving it a second thought, Andrew waved her on and she gingerly walked over to Foyle, taking his hand as she stood next to him. It was their first public display of affection. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear and at the same time, glimpsed his son looking in their direction. Foyle motioned to him that they were leaving, at the same time gently releasing Sam's hand. Sam suddenly looked where Foyle was looking and saw Andrew watching them. But he hadn't seemed to notice, although he did seem a bit concerned.

They both turned to leave and had walked a few yards, discussing plans for dinner, when they heard someone approaching. Foyle turned and found Andrew jogging up behind them.

"Are you both really going to leave the party?"

Sam waited for Foyle to respond, but he was waiting for her to do. They exchanged glances then Sam said, "We were thinking about dinner at home, Andrew. Would you like to join us?"

Foyle could see the confused look on his son's face, and wasn't sure if he should say something now or later. But Andrew made the decision for him.

"Nah, I'm going to stick around for a bit," Andrew said.

"Going to be late?" Foyle asked, expectantly.

Andrew's brow furrowed in concern; then he looked back at the gathering. "Don't think so," he drawled. Turning back to his father, he asked, "Is there something wrong?"

Foyle shook his head. "Nope. Just need to discuss something with you, nothing urgent."

"Now you've _really_ got me wondering."

"As I said, nothing wrong, no emergency." Foyle took a step back, indicating his desire to depart. "Thought we'd have a bit of a sit-in."

"Okay, I'll be home. What time, do you think?"

Foyle looked at Sam. "Just whenever you feel like getting in. And if not tonight, tomorrow will work."

"I'll be there." Andrew smiled knowingly. His father had something on his mind. Then he eyed Sam questioningly, her sudden uncharacteristic quietness drawing his attention. "Talk to you tomorrow, Sam?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

He nodded to his dad, then turned to head back to the festivities. Foyle watched him go before turning with his Sam and heading home. He had a gut feeling that his talk with Andrew would not be easy. After walking several feet, he looked back, but couldn't see Andrew or much of the revelers, as he and Sam were now walking downhill. He reached over and took Sam's hand, lacing his fingers with hers. The night was young and he intended to use it to solve something he had been pondering.

For some reason, Sam had started pulling away from him lately when they were alone, and he wasn't sure why. Her desire to be alone with him and her enthusiasm during their loving moments was evident. So, why did he feel that she was purposely putting up a wall between them? His plan was to get settled, have a bite to eat, maybe sit in front of the fire, and then bring it up. It was a good plan. But things didn't always go to plan.

Soon after they arrived back at his house, they began preparing supper, and while waiting for the water to boil for tea, he started a fire in the fireplace. Sam had set the table, having grown accustomed to doing so over the weeks of their courtship. They were about to sit down to supper when the front door opened. Andrew had came back early.

"Dad?" he called out.

Turning the corner, he saw both his dad and Sam standing at the table, music playing softly in the background. The intimacy, as well as the ease, of the setting was not lost on him. He looked from Sam, who was fidgeting with the buttons on her blouse, her jacket lying to the side, to his father, who was standing stiffly at the head of the table.

"I, uh, thought I'd join you instead. No one there I really wanted to see," he said, dropping the last few words. He was about to say something else, but Foyle beat him to it.

"I'm glad you did. I'll get another plate," Foyle interceded, then walked into the kitchen.

He came back and found Sam seated and Andrew sitting across from her. Foyle asked, "So, any plans for tomorrow?"

Andrew grinned mischievously and replied, "Nope. I'm all yours."

Foyle smirked and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Well, maybe I can put you to work in helping to unpack my office."

"Oh, quite right. They're moving the station."

"Have moved, really," Sam enjoined. "I don't suppose you're going to need a driver anymore, then?" she asked Foyle.

Andrew looked from one to the other inquisitively. "Why not? He isn't retired yet."

"Oh, I almost forgot. You didn't hear," she teased. "It seems this whole time I've been here, your father could actually drive. He drove Paul and Edie to hospital."

Andrew quirked an eyebrow at his father. "You didn't tell her you could drive?"

"I never actually said I _couldn't_ drive. I just didn't want to."

"I'm surprised you didn't ship me off the first day," Sam put in, still somewhat disheartened. "You really didn't need me."

"No, that's not true," Foyle replied quietly, thoughtfully, looking into her eyes. He _had_ needed her; it was just that, at the time, he hadn't realized how much. He did now. He looked at Andrew. "Sam was very much needed."

Still, the moment wasn't right to start a conversation with his son. He didn't want Sam to witness the confrontation, in case it grew heated. He'd bide his time. Perhaps sending Sam home early might be a good idea.

An hour later, after supper (and a few good laughs as Sam told Andrew of some of the more interesting cases they'd handled since they'd last seen him), Foyle and Sam were in the kitchen, washing the dishes. Andrew had gone up to change out of his uniform.

"Do you want me to go?" Sam asked.

Foyle took a deep breath and nodded. "I think it might be best. I don't think things are going to go… smoothly."

"Maybe I should stay and—"

Foyle shook his head. "No, go home, get some rest. I'll deal with it. You shouldn't have to." Foyle could see she wanted to argue the point, so he placed a finger on her lips to forestall her. He replaced his finger with his lips, but gave her only a light peck. "Please, just this time… for me?"

She searched his eyes, hoping to see that he wanted her to stay, but he was determined. "Ok… but I want to know everything that is said."

Foyle opened his mouth to disagree, but Sam shook her head and said, "Nope! Either you'll tell me, or I'm staying."

"Well. I'll tell you as long as nothing untoward is said."

"Agreed."

A few minutes later Foyle was watching her walk out the front door. Andrew hadn't come back down yet, and Foyle thought he might have lain down for a bit. He'd noticed his son hadn't been sleeping all that well, so it wouldn't surprise him if he had done.

Half an hour later, Andrew reappeared and found his father sitting comfortably in a chair by the fireplace, staring at the flames. Foyle looked up and motioned for Andrew to get himself a drink. He watched him look around as he prepared his drink and knew he was wondering where Sam was.

"She went home."

Andrew turned around, "Already? It's early."

Foyle just nodded, sipping his scotch. "She knew I wanted to talk with you."

"Well, we could have talked any time. I'm back and have no plans to go anywhere."

Foyle pursed his lips, considering how to start. He sighed. "I think it is best we talk now rather than later."

"Ok… what about?" Andrew asked, eyeing the chess board casually.

"Well, Sam, actually."

Andrew frowned. "Oh, so you didn't want her to hear us talking about her?"

"Exactly. Andrew…" Foyle hesitated, but he knew he had to do this. "Sam is involved with someone—"

Andrew's head shot up and he looked at his dad for confirmation that he'd heard him correctly. "She never said anything."

"No, she wouldn't. It's been kept quiet."

"Why? Is there something wrong with him?"

"No, nothing wrong." Foyle suppressed a wry smile. "He's just a bit older."

"Really? How much older?"

Foyle stared at his son, trying to convey his meaning. "About twenty-five years older."

Andrew's eyes bugged out. "Holy… really? I never pictured Sam going for an older…" Then his eyes narrowed as what his father was trying to convey to him hit him like a ton of bricks.

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: You're all too awesome! Loved the reviews, thank you so much.

I need to make note that we've discovered a problem in my timeline and have had to make corrections in Chapters 1 and 3.

Also, this will be the last bi-weekly update. I will only be posting on Friday nights for the rest of the chapters, as I had originally planned.

And another shout out to my betas... any mistakes left are because of my additions after their hard work.

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><p>"You're the older man." It wasn't a question. "You <em>were<em> holding hands earlier. I wasn't sure at first."

Foyle remained quiet, waiting for the explosion of emotion from his son. Instead, Andrew reclined in his chair and eyed his father for a long time.

"How long, um, have you, um…" he stumbled through his words.

"How long what? Been involved, had these feelings?" Foyle asked.

"Uh, both, I guess."

"Sam was seriously ill a few months ago. While she recovered, we spent a lot of time together and I started realizing that she meant more to me than just my driver… my friend. I discovered that the feelings I'd had for her were much stronger than I knew."

"And your feelings for her started when?"

"The first time I saw her." Foyle couldn't help smiling at the memory. "I just hadn't appreciated how deeply I felt until she fell ill, again."

"Again?"

"She's been in a few scrapes since she's been here, Andrew. None of them were her fault. If truth be told, I believe they were mostly my fault."

"So, you feel responsible for her."

Foyle didn't like the implication. He knew what Andrew was trying to get at, but it wasn't like that. "Not what you think, Andrew."

"I don't understand, Dad," Andrew stated simply. "She and I were involved and now, you're saying she's with you?"

"Yep." Foyle took a sip of his drink and waited patiently as Andrew tried to come to terms with what his father was trying to explain.

Andrew started shaking his head. "She really meant it."

Foyle now looked quizzically at his son. "Meant what?"

Andrew told him about his conversation with Sam in the car at the beach. "She just wanted friendship, she said. I asked her to marry me, right now. She refused of course, but I made some comment about her hidden desire to have you as a father-in-law." He scoffed at his choice of words. "God... if you got married… I'd be her stepson." He looked truly offended by the thought.

"That's usually how it works."

"Are you in love with her?"

Foyle slowly blinked, then nodded. "Definitely."

"Are you planning to marry her?"

"I was thinking of asking her once all her brothers are home."

Andrew threw himself back against his seat and ran a hand through his hair. "Dad, this is just…"

"If it helps, it threw me for a bit of a loop as well."

"No, it doesn't." Andrew looked doubtfully at him. "What do her father, _her mother_—"

"They already know _and_ approve," Foyle interjected.

"You've already talked with her parents?" Andrew asked incredulously.

"Yep, visited them in Lyminster several weeks ago," Foyle replied crisply.

"And?" Andrew was obviously eager to know more about their reaction to their young daughter stepping out with a much older man.

"I've already told you that they approve. What more do you need to know?"

"Well, what about _my_ approval?" Andrew asked.

"I didn't think I needed your approval to ask a woman to marry me."

"But... it's _Sam_!"

"So...?" Foyle responded, as if talking to a sulking child.

"Don't you think it's wrong that she is young enough to be your _daughter_? How much older than you is her father?"

"He's fifteen years older, if you must know. If this doesn't bother her, why should it bother me?"

"Why did you ask her to take me out if you were interested in her all along?"

"I asked her to take you out because you were distressed, moping, and I thought that Sam might get your mind off things."

"Sam as your driver or Sam as a girl?"

"Does it matter?"

"I think it does. If you wanted me to step out with her, then that meant that you thought she would not step out with you."

Foyle raised an eyebrow enigmatically. "Really? How so?"

"_I just don't understand you! _How can you tell me that you started to fall in love with Sam from the very beginning, and then stood by while _I_ stepped out with her?"

"You don't know anything about how I felt."

"You're right, Dad. I never know anything about how you feel because you never _tell_ me anything."

"Some things aren't up for discussion."

"Like Mum's death? Like Sam?" Andrew threw the barbs, knowing where they'd land.

Foyle felt as though his son had just punched him in the nose. He started to turn away but did an about-face. "Look, Andrew—what is this _really_ about?" he demanded, giving his son a piercing stare. "Because if you were really in love with Sam, you chose a devil of a strange way to let her know... stepping out with another girl behind her back, when you were in Debden. And now the war is over, you come back and want to pick up right where you left off, as if nothing has changed. But things _have_ changed. Sam has changed, so have I... and so have you."

"But—"

"I didn't think I bred you to be like that with women." Foyle recalled the young woman his son had stepped out with early on during the war. _What was her name? Ah yes, Violet._ Foyle was as stung by his son's behaviour with young Violet as he was surprised at Andrew's throwing over Sam. Privately Christopher was upset that his son was such a womaniser. It wasn't the way he'd wished him to turn out. "So let me ask you: Are you going to be a gentleman about all this and let me have my own share of happiness? Or are you going to make things miserable for Sam and me? Because you and I both know you could do just that."

"Of _course_ I won't make things hard for Sam," Andrew replied sheepishly. "And I _am_ happy that you've found someone. I really am! I've wanted this for you for a long time. To tell you the truth, Dad, I didn't think you had it in you. But I just—I can't believe it's Sam. You must understand; this is quite a shock."

A knock sounded at the front door. Foyle eyed his son warily, then turned to the door. He opened it to find the subject of their heated debate smiling brightly up at him. "Sam?"

"Hello! I'd got all the way home before I realized I'd forgotten my hat and jacket." She examined his face, noting the stress lines on his forehead. _So, they've already had the talk._

He stammered a welcome and let her in, then watched his son scrutinise Sam's sudden appearance. "Sam."

"Oh, good evening, Andrew. Didn't know you were up. I thought you were having a nap."

"I, uh, I was. Dad and I were, um…we were just talking," Andrew said brusquely.

The room suddenly felt a bit chillier. Foyle couldn't suppress a grimace at his son's harsh tone. He'd had a feeling that Andrew was going to take his disappointment out on Sam. "Andrew," he said warningly.

Sam darted her eyes between the two men, then dipped her head thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you'd want to tell me what about."

Andrew swallowed and Foyle hid a smile. Leave it to Sam to put Andrew in his place.

"I didn't think so," she continued. Looking at Foyle's eyes to confirm that everything was in the open, she received a nod in confirmation. "Andrew, things have changed a deal since you went away. I've changed."

"Sam—"

"Please, let me say what I need to say, Andrew," she interrupted.

Looking chagrined, Andrew nodded for her to continue.

"For a long time, I've admired your father, never realising that my feelings were growing irrevocably attached. That isn't to say I never thought of how things could be between us." She spared a glance for Foyle, smiling shyly. "I just couldn't believe he felt the same way." Turning back to Andrew, she said firmly, "I never secretly desired to have him as a father-in-law, and certainly not as a father." She held out a hand for Foyle and he accepted it, holding it tightly in both his hands as she covered his with her other hand.

Sam inhaled deeply. "I care very deeply for him, Andrew. Can you accept that? Or will we be at odds for the next long while?"

Andrew closed his eyes and turned from them. When he opened them, the fire flickered before him, heating his already flushed face. As Andrew looked back at them, Foyle knew his son at last saw what had been obvious all the time—mutual admiration, a touch of love reflected in their eyes.

"I only want you to be happy, Sam," Andrew muttered softly.

She grinned. "I am, Andrew. Very happy."

Andrew ran a hand through his thick mane of hair and down his neck. He was clearly upset by this turn of events.

Sam thought that, as much as he'd hurt her by breaking things off, she didn't truly want to see him hurt. Before she could say anything more to try to dispel his injured feelings, he declared huffily that he needed to get some air.

Andrew skirted around Sam, quickly grabbing his jacket and hat. Before reaching the door, however, he turned stiffly to face Sam and his father. Meeting Sam's eyes, he said glumly, "If you can't be with me, I'm glad you've chosen a better man."

Sam felt rather disheartened at Andrew's reluctant acceptance of his father's romantic association with her. She'd hoped that he'd accept it with good cheer, even though she knew full well that was unlikely. Andrew had an endearing quality of good humor most of the time, but the war had changed him, just as it had most everyone.

Foyle tugged her hand and drew her into his arms. "He'll come around," he murmured as he softly kissed the side of her head.

She pulled back gently, looking into his eyes. "You think he will?"

"Mmm," he reassured. "How about you; you going to be all right?"

She nodded silently. She looked past him to the window, noting the darkening sky. "I should go."

Foyle pursed his lips before agreeing. "I'll walk with you."

Sam shook her head. "No, I'll be all right."

"You sure?" he asked. "You don't have the car."

"Yep. It's not dark yet." She glanced out the window again. "Tomorrow morning,_ Sir_?"

He lifted his eyebrow, trying to look stern. "Yes, _Miss Stewart_, eight o'clock sharp."

She couldn't help but giggle as he guided her to the door with an arm around her waist. He opened the door for her, but after she stepped forward, she turned back quickly and gathered her hat and jacket from their perch in his entryway. "Almost forgot them again." She donned her hat and leaned in to kiss his cheek, but he thwarted her small gesture and kissed her lips firmly. Before she could return the kiss and deepen it, he released her.

"Good night, Sam."

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><p>Sam could hear the festivities continuing in other parts of the town as she made her way home. She was halfway there when she saw a couple of boys running down the pavement across the street. Clearly, they were running from someone. They turned the corner quickly, and Sam turned back to see who it was giving chase.<p>

A Home Guardsman came pelting over the hill, out of breath as he raced down the pavement, trying to keep up with the young boys. He came to a sudden halt when he caught sight of Sam.

She squinted against the setting sun behind the man, and was about to call out that the boys had rounded the corner when she realized the man was now crossing the street, coming towards her.

He looked vaguely familiar to her. She smiled in greeting, but the man did not smile back. As he came closer Sam suddenly recognized him, but couldn't believe her eyes. _He's dead. I know he's dead._ Without thinking, she started to back away. With each step, her movements became more frantic, more harried, but the man kept nearing her, now drawing close enough that if he wanted to, he could lunge for her. Her instinct to flee took over and she turned and ran full bore down the street, looking back once to see whether he was following. He was. She made it to the next street and realized she was near the old station house. She continued running until she reached the front entrance, stepped inside, and swiftly shut and bolted the door behind her. She slid to the floor and gulped for air. The footsteps halted on the pavement outside; the door handle jiggled. Sam held her breath, hoping the other doors were locked. Unbidden tears were now streaming down her cheeks. She shook her head against everything she thought she knew. _It's impossible. He's dead. I know he's dead._ But the man she'd seen and who had just chased her was the spitting image of the one who had changed her life forever, irrevocably, fifteen years ago.

She saw a shadow hover in the window, then slink away. Sam knew better than to think it was safe so soon to step outside. She glanced around the once-bustling station house. Her tears flowed in earnest as she realized how much had changed so quickly. Foyle would soon be retiring, the police now had a new home, and she was out of a job. The only bright spot in her future at the moment, beyond the end of the war, was her developing relationship with her one-time boss. But even therein was a danger of disappointment and fear. Not only was she upset about Andrew, but her fear of Foyle's disappointment in her and that he wouldn't be able to accept what had happened to her was almost too much to bear. And with the presence of this man from her past, that fear grew even stronger.

Sam wiped her tears, then stood. She paced around the room, running her hand along the edge of the front counter. She glanced down the hallway, looking from Milner's former office down to Foyle's former office. Her face screwed up again with new tears. _He can't know, not like this. He just can't._

She sat on the bench to the left of the counter, then lay down on her side and let her tears flow.

Sam woke up in the dark with a start. Shivering, she stood, crossing her arms and rubbing them with her hands. She walked to the front window and looked out, but saw no one. Sighing heavily, she walked through the darkened rooms to the back door and slipped through. With only the full moon guiding her, she exercised care in looking both ways and went tentatively around to the back of the building. Sam then hastily made her way down the deserted street. It wasn't until she reached her door that she allowed herself the freedom to look back. Seeing no one, she heaved a sigh of relief.

Once inside, she scurried to her room, shutting the door behind her. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the door for what seemed like hours. Later, exhausted with tension and with her eyes dry from her tears, she scooted back on the bed and lay down, falling into an uneasy sleep.

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><p>The next morning, Foyle was in a chipper mood and answered his door to find a very weary and somewhat disheveled Sam waiting for him. He looked her up and down. Her uniform was in order, but her hair was somewhat awry and her eyes bloodshot. "Sam, are you all right?"<p>

She couldn't help the yawn that escaped, and hurried to cover it with her hand. "Sorry," she apologized sheepishly. "I didn't sleep well last night."

Foyle pursed his lips, biting his cheek at the same time. He inched forward, then took a step back and motioned for Sam to enter, which she did. "We're in no hurry. Would you like some tea?" he asked.

She nodded, trying in vain to smile. "Yes, please. Thank you."

She followed him to the kitchen but he waved her onward to the table, where she sat and waited for him. He glanced back at her from the kitchen, again noting how tired she seemed. He feared she'd spent the night upset about Andrew. _Probably cried herself to sleep._

He poured her a cup of tea and set it in front of her, but she didn't seem to see him. She jumped as he grasped her shoulder to draw her attention. "Another nightmare?" he guessed, and then squinted with puzzlement at the startled look she gave him.

"No, I, uh, well… yes, I, it just, um, felt so real…" she said, stumbling through an explanation as she toyed with her teacup.

Foyle pulled out the chair next to her and turned it to face her. He watched her take a sip of her tea, noting how her hands shook as she did. After she put the cup down, he took her hands in his and looked intently into her eyes. "Sam, you could tell me about it. It often helps to do so."

She immediately shook her head. "I, um, I just need to get busy. It'll fade soon enough."

Her reluctance to tell him about her nightmares concerned him. It was rare for Sam not to want to tell him everything on her mind—sometimes all at once. And now that their relationship had grown so intimate, he couldn't fathom why she was so adamant not to tell him. He loved her dearly and was loathe to see her distraught. Something was troubling her and he wanted to banish it from her mind. "Well, if I can't help in that way, then perhaps it would help if you took some time off today—"

"No, really, I just want to work, to stay busy. It'll wear off soon enough," she insisted.

"All right, but you'll promise me that if you're not feeling up to the work today, to let me know." He gave her hands a slight shake until she nodded in acquiescence. "Promise?"

"Yes," she answered, though unenthusiastically.

"So, finish your tea and we'll head over to the new station house. Don't know how long I'll remain chief superintendent, so we may as well get my office in order."

She nodded and sipped at her tea. He'd already released her hands and stood to return to the kitchen. When he came back she'd finished her tea and was standing at the front window, staring outside.

"Shall we?" he asked.

This time her response was more cheerful, and Foyle thought it due to the tea. It occurred to him that she may not have taken the time that morning to have a spot, as he knew she always did.

He gathered his hat and jacket and they set off for the new station with plans to unpack his office and help move in others.

Sam dropped him at the front door and assured him that she'd meet him inside after she parked the car in the garage. Before he walked inside, Foyle was met by a neighbor of the old station house who wanted to alert him to a strange prowler in the neighborhood the night before. He listened attentively for a few moments, then told the elderly man that he'd have someone look into it. After parting company with him, Foyle took the stairs up to the front door and opened it, only to find his darling Sam cowering with fright as she stared at a man twice her size.

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: As promised, Chapter 8.

Again, thank you to my betas and friends, each of you have given me your opinion and views on so many aspects of this story that I can't imagine developing any story without you.

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><p>Foyle looked at Sergeant Brooks, who was manning the front desk and gaping in an apparent daze at the young man speaking with Sam. Her back was hugging the entryway's support column, and on her face was a mixture of anger and terror. The young man in question wore a Home Guard uniform, and he towered over Sam. Foyle moved to place himself between them.<p>

"What's happening here?" he asked.

The Home Guardsman looked Foyle over and asked, "What's it to you?"

"You're in my station house, attempting to intimidate a member of the police department," Foyle said crisply. "I think it has everything to do with me. So again, I ask you, what is your business here?"

The man stood a little straighter. "I'm Henry Stevens, recently reassigned by the Home Guard to Hastings. Miss Stewart and I have known each other for years, from our home town of Lyminster, and I was just... _reintroducing_ myself to her as we haven't seen each other in nearly fifteen years."

Foyle studied Mr. Stevens, noting the lack of care in his uniform. He then looked up, over the man's shoulder, at the woman who had come to mean so much to him. "Sam, is this man bothering you?"

Sam nervously darted a look between Stevens and Christopher. "I, uh, no, Sir. He just… surprised me is all. As, uh, Henry said, I haven't seen him in nearly fifteen years. He, uh... he startled me is all."

Foyle grimaced a moment, unsure if he should let it stand at that. Sam rarely held back information, but in this instance, she was outright lying to him; of that he was sure. Turning back to Stevens, Foyle sternly stared into his eyes. "We have police business to handle, Miss Stewart. Please bring the car around."

Sam slid away from behind Foyle and hurried to the back of the station and out of sight, while Christopher continued staring at Mr. Stevens. "I suggest you return to your work, Mr. Stevens, and allow my staff to do theirs."

Stevens nodded and left. Foyle shook off the tension in his shoulders and went to the front desk. Sergeant Brooks' mouth was still agape but he was looking a bit relieved. _He shouldn't._ Foyle was not happy with the scene he'd just happened upon – it wasn't completely about his personal relationship with Sam either.

"Sergeant? What can you tell me was wrong with that situation?"

Brooks blinked and closed his mouth, then stood a little straighter. "Well, Sir, the young man was scaring Miss Stewart, to be sure. I had just come back from handing a note to Sergeant Milner when I saw them two having words."

"And you didn't think it warranted some interference on your part, possibly that Miss Stewart might need some protection?"

"I, well, uh, no, Sir. It wasn't apparent at the moment that the young man meant any harm to Miss Stewart."

"Did you not see the look on her face? That she was terrified?"

Brooks gulped, knowing he'd somehow screwed up. "I, no, Sir, I hadn't actually thought that…"

Foyle leaned over the counter, and through gritted teeth advised, "If you ever see that look on her face again, or on _any_ woman's, you move to protect her as if she were your baby sister. Is that understood?"

"Yes, uh… yes, Sir. Perfectly, Sir."

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><p>"I don't know what was happening exactly, but Sam was clearly agitated by the presence of the young man," Foyle related to Sergeant Milner over a cup of tea in his office half an hour later. He'd sent Sam on an errand to distract her and himself. Milner was sitting forward, elbows on knees and hat in his hands. "The look on her face was a cross between 'how dare you speak to me in such a manner' and 'he's going to kill me'.<p>

"Had he put his hands on her?"

"Not that I know of, but from her reaction you would have thought so."

"He's new?"

"Yes."

"Want me to look into his background? He might be the same one involved in the Parkerton case a few weeks back."

"Yep."

"Ok, you said they've known each other for fifteen years?" Milner asked.

Foyle nodded. "From Lyminster."

"So her family would know him."

"Probably, but I think we should be discreet with this. I'm not sure she'd be happy with us digging up her backyard."

Milner nodded in agreement, and then stood. "I'll talk with her uncle and see what he knows, and then I'll check with a friend in the police at Lyminster as well."

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><p>Milner hadn't gotten very far with either of his sources. Sam's uncle seemed not to know the name of the young man, though something niggled in the back of Milner's mind about the way her uncle referred to Stevens. He just couldn't put his finger on it. His contact at the Lyminster police station had been stationed there only since the start of the war, so he didn't know Sam. He told Milner he'd look into it, but Milner asked him to keep it hush-hush.<p>

At home, it was close to ten o'clock at night when Milner received a call from the night sergeant. With the phone still in his hand, he sat down on the nearest chair, running a hand through his hair. "Are you sure?... No, I'll tell him. We'll be in shortly."

At nearly eleven o'clock, DCS Foyle was putting away his fishing lures when someone rapped on his front door. He was surprised to find his harried sergeant on his doorstep.

"It's Sam, Sir. She's been arrested."

"_What?_ What for?"

"Murder."

Foyle could only stare at the younger man in disbelief. It had to be a joke—and not a funny one at that. Then suddenly, Sam's terrified look flashed before his eyes from earlier that morning and he knew it was no joke. "Stevens?" he asked.

"I believe so, Sir."

"Come in. I'll get my shoes and coat."

Fifteen minutes later, both men walked into the quiet station house to a worried-looking sergeant. "I really don't know what to think, Sir. Sergeants Pritchard and Richardson walked in with Miss Stewart… as a murderess. But they said it was all on the up and up."

Foyle asked, "Where is she?"

"Well, they wanted to put her in a cell, but I just couldn't do that, Sir. So I had them put her in your office while one of them stayed with her."

Normally, Foyle would have reminded the sergeant of his responsibilities, no matter who was involved, but in this instance, he couldn't. He would have done the same.

Instead, Foyle asked Milner to follow him to his office. After dismissing Sergeant Pritchard, he took a moment to study Sam, who was standing at the window, looking out, her hands clasped behind her back. Had it not been for her physical appearance—disheveled hair, torn skirt and stockings, and the caked-on dirt clinging to her spring dress—Foyle would not have guessed that she was in any way disconcerted. She wasn't whimpering or cowering—she didn't appear overwrought.

"Sam?" he said, trying, without success, to get her attention "Sam," he repeated, "please look at me." She turned and faced him squarely with a blank look. "What happened?" Sam didn't reply, just stood silently, staring straight ahead, and pointedly not looking into his eyes. This wasn't his dear Sam.

"Sam? Do you know what you're being charged with?"

Still no reply.

"Miss Stewart, answer me," he commanded.

"Yes, Sir… murder," she said, her mouth slightly quivering.

At least it was an answer, though calmly stated. But, for a split second as she said the word _murder_, something flashed in her eyes and he saw the tremble in her lips.

"Who was it?"

She hesitated, but when he took a step closer, she answered, "Henry Stevens."

Foyle closed his eyes. "Why?"

"Why what, Sir?"

Foyle was quickly becoming irritated. Sam was not stupid. She was intentionally playing ignorant – and he was becoming angry.

"Did you kill him, Sam?"

She didn't answer and when Foyle started to press, she straightened her back and said, "Yes. I killed him. I'm guilty."

Foyle drew a deep, frustrated breath as he stared at her. "Sam, you do realize how serious this is?"

She nodded, but he wanted to hear it. "Answer me."

"Yes, Sir."

Foyle hit the wall hard with the flat of his hand… and Sam jumped, finally made to react. "Answer my question, Sam. Why? Why did you kill him?"

She remained silent.

"Sam! You could be _hanged_ for this." His voice broke. He cleared his throat and lowering his voice, he asked, "Do you understand that? Hanged? Dead?"

Her pupils grew large but she didn't move. "Yes, Sir."

"_Sam_, I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Her head tilted down just slightly, enough for Foyle to notice. "Do you _want_ to die?"

She shook her head.

"Then you have to tell me why. Why were you so afraid of him earlier today?"

"I wasn't, Sir."

He rolled his eyes. "Sam—"

"Please don't. Just… let it be," she whimpered.

And there it was finally, a sign of real emotion. Sam was pretending to be strong, but was more distraught than she showed. "I can't, Sam. You know I have to investigate, that I'm going to have to dig into this."

She turned to face him, her face contorted in anguish. "Please don't. _Please just let it be_."

"I can't, Sam. I won't stand by and watch you hang."

She turned away from him and wrapped her arms around her midsection, sobbing quietly. Foyle looked to Milner, who had remained quietly watching the interaction between his boss and co-worker. Foyle's guess was that she was hiding something, something she didn't want either of them to know, most especially him. He nodded to Milner to continue and turned away, but still listening; he couldn't ask her any more questions. Not yet.

"Sam, did Henry Stevens hurt you?" Milner asked.

Sam didn't answer. Milner decided to try a different tack, to force a reaction. In nearly a whisper, he asked, "Did he force himself on you, Sam?"

She whirled around. "No. He… he didn't. He just… he wouldn't let go. He kept _pushing and... and… he wouldn't let go_—" Suddenly she stopped, pressing a hand to her mouth, obviously aware that he'd intentionally provoked a response from her. The look in his eyes caught her unaware, and she turned to look at Foyle and saw the pain evident in his.

Milner stepped closer, holding out his hand. His voice was gentle. "Give me your hands, please."

Sam looked up at the tall sergeant; her brow furrowed questioningly, but she did as she was told. When she held out her hands, he grasped one and pushed her sleeve up, displaying the bruising now evident on her forearm and wrist. Repeating his examination on the other arm, he found the same marks.

He released her and looked at his boss. "She's been assaulted, Sir. I'd say he meant her _serious_ harm."

Foyle was at a point where he wasn't so sure about any of it. Certainly she'd been assaulted, but something was missing. Sam had lied to him earlier in the day and she was definitely hiding something now. She was deliberately withholding information from him. He needed the truth. "Lock her up," he said, looking her straight in the eyes.

Milner looked askance at his boss, but the look Foyle shot him made it clear he'd brook no argument.

When Milner looked back at Sam, her mask was back on. She'd wiped her eyes and now stood silently, waiting for him to escort her. He grasped her elbow gently and led her out of the office.

Foyle watched them leave, waiting for the door to close before sinking in his chair and dropping his head in his hands. Sam was in serious trouble and he had nothing to go on other than the fact that she knew the victim. He knew, absolutely, that what he'd witnessed earlier that morning was a young woman terrified of the man standing before her. He'd obviously manhandled her, but how had it escalated to murder?

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you to those who kindly reviewed. I loved hearing your reactions!

Thanks to my betas once again. Love your insights ladies.

I've started another story... shorter one. Hope to have it done in the next few weeks. But we still have four more chapters of this one as well as the epilogue to go yet.

Warning: This chapter tells of a past incident of rape.

* * *

><p>Early the next morning, Foyle and Milner visited the crime scene. Clearly etched in the dirt were drag marks, which supported Sam's story of Stevens' attack. Ten meters away, where the drag marks ended near the police garage, the soil was stained dark with his blood. The weapon was a screwdriver belonging to the Hastings Police garage, a weapon of convenience. The whole scene screamed self-defense, and yet Sam was willing to accept full responsibility.<p>

Foyle was bewildered with Sam's behavior the night before. Her sense of right and wrong was a bit muddled. She seemed to believe that taking a life, no matter the reason, was beyond redemption. _But why?_ She'd been with the police long enough to know the difference between self-defense and murder. Why was she so willing to accept a charge of murder? _It didn't make sense._

After returning from the crime scene, Foyle barricaded himself in his office. The tension in the station house was palpable. Everyone liked Sam. No one questioned her position any longer; after five years of service to the police, she'd proven she belonged.

Foyle heard a quick tap on the door and looked up to see Milner entering, evidently out of sorts. "Sam still isn't saying anything. And I've tried to reach her father, but there's been no answer."

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"Lyminster. We're not getting any answers here." Foyle stood and grabbed his hat and coat.

"Do you want Sergeant Brooks to drive?"

Foyle stopped mid-stride, head tilted down, shoulders hunched. He swiveled back to Milner. Frustrated with the whole situation, he testily replied, "No, I'll drive."

* * *

><p>Foyle remembered well the route Sam had taken on their first trip together to Lyminster. He found the vicarage easily next to the big church which stood out against the landscape.<p>

Reverend Stewart was in his front yard as they pulled up, and he walked over to meet them, a welcoming smile lighting his face. "Good morning, Mr. Foyle, Mr. Milner." He seemed oblivious to anything amiss, despite the two policemen coming to his home, out of their jurisdiction. "What brings you to Lyminster?"

It was then that the older man's eyes glanced toward the car, evidently expecting his daughter to be in the driver's seat. Foyle watched his smile change to an expression of concern.

"Is Samantha not driving you today?"

"No, she's not," Foyle replied. "Could we, erm, take this somewhere more private?" he asked, nodding toward the vicarage.

The vicar hesitated, certainly now concerned. "Come this way," he said, gesturing towards the house.

The men walked together silently into the house and were greeted instantly by Mrs. Stewart. She was a plump woman with soft eyes and short, curly grey hair. The men greeted her kindly but solemnly, which was definitely not lost on her. She darted a glance at her husband as he ushered her to the sofa. Once everyone was seated, Mr. Stewart looked expectantly at Mr. Foyle.

"Is Samantha all right?" he asked.

Foyle tilted his head in consideration and licked his bottom lip. "She's uninjured, but… she's…" He hesitated only because Mrs. Stewart was suddenly appearing overwrought with worry, placing her hand to her lips. Foyle recalled Sam doing the same thing the night before. "Sam's in a bit of a spot and we need your help to clear it up."

"What's happened?" Mr. Stewart queried.

Foyle looked to Milner for help. He was having a rather tough time dealing with the parents of his young love. They knew and approved of their courtship, but his unexpected arrival without her was understandably worrisome.

"She's been arrested, Sir," Milner interjected.

Sam's mother gasped. Mr. Stewart wrapped his arm around her gently, comfortingly. He looked at the sergeant then back to Foyle and asked, "What is she charged with?"

Foyle's eyes flickered as he quietly said, "Murder."

Mrs. Stewart began to cry as Mr. Stewart stood defensively. "Samantha would never kill another person. You know that. She's… she would never—"

Foyle watched as the older man lost his confidence in his own daughter, suddenly hesitating to defend her. "She would never, what?" Foyle asked.

"She's not violent, Mr. Foyle. She wouldn't harm another living soul unless…"

"Unless what?" He wasn't about to put words in the older man's mouth. This case had to be by the book to ensure that Sam's name was cleared—if it could be.

Sam's father was clearly fighting a dilemma. It was what Foyle had counted on. He was right about his suspicions. The family knew something—something that Sam was clearly ready to die for rather than reveal.

Mr. Stewart look pained. "Unless she was being hurt."

"She was clearly being hurt, but…" He held up his hand to forestall their questions. "She was uninjured except for some bruising on her hands and arms."

"Please, Mr. Foyle. What happened to my little girl?" Mrs. Stewart asked softly through her sobs.

"She was assaulted by a young man whom she says she knew… from her childhood."

Mr. Stewart leaned forward and asked, "What was his name?"

"Henry Stevens."

Mrs. Stewart's sobs suddenly quieted and she shared a look with her husband. "I can't… I can't stay here and listen to this, but you have to tell them... _everything_." Sam's mother got unsteadily to her feet and left the room.

"Sir, what do you know about Henry Stevens?" Foyle asked.

Sam's father stared out the window past the men sitting before him. Moments ticked by as they waited for him to refocus.

He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. "Henry Stevens was a young boy the last I, we, saw of him; that was before his parents moved the family away. They'd lived here for decades, until about thirteen years ago. Samantha was just turned fifteen."

He looked out the window again then stood and went over to it, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know what Henry Stevens was doing in Hastings, but if what you say is true then I should think that assaulting a young woman and causing injury would be good enough reason for Samantha to do what she did."

Foyle fingered his hat, contemplating. He sensed that this conversation wasn't going to end well, although he hoped he was wrong. He stood and walked over to Sam's father and asked quietly, "What aren't you telling us?"

"It was thirteen years ago." Mr. Stewart bowed his head as he thought back. "I thought we'd put it past us, moved on, but it feels as if it happened only yesterday."

Foyle grew concerned at the melancholy evident in the older man's voice. If what _could have happened_ last night to Sam was any indication of what had occurred thirteen years before, Foyle wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. "Sam won't talk about what happened and has asked us not to investigate. She's willing to hang rather than tell us."

The older man turned to face Foyle, and then he nodded to the chair and sofa. "Please sit. _I'll_ tell you what you need to know." They both took their seats again and Mr. Stewart leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. They patiently waited for him to collect himself and begin the story.

"Samantha had just turned fifteen. She'd always been a bit of a tomboy, forever trailing along with her brothers, or fishing or tramping through the fields with the local children. She'd always been very responsible, though. She never came home late, always watched out for the younger children, or even some of the older ones who didn't act as if they knew any better." He looked at Foyle intently. "Although extremely chatty, and questioning every little thing, she never got into serious trouble. She was a good child—my delight."

"One sunny summer afternoon, she and some of her friends had walked to the creek. On the way, she'd stopped to admire some young lambs frolicking in a pen on the outskirts of the Stevens' farm. She's always loved animals, no matter their species." He sighed, shaking his head as he recalled events. "The others had continued on, not realizing she'd stayed behind. And Samantha also had not noticed that her friends had gone on ahead of her."

_Samantha was laughing at one of the little lambs that playfully butted at her hand, when she suddenly realized she was alone. She stood up and turned to find her friends, but found Joel Stevens instead. The older boy, nearly twenty years old, towered over her with a set look on his face. She gasped, somewhat startled. But knowing him from the neighbourhood and church, she smiled at him. He didn't smile back, just stared at her. Unsure of his demeanor, Samantha turned to the lane to walk after her friends when he suddenly lunged toward her and yanked her braids, pulling her to the ground. Samantha began to yell, but he covered her mouth with his hand until she bit him. Furious, he struck her face with his fist, knocking her unconscious. She woke later as he dragged her across the field to the barn._

"She couldn't fight him. He was so much larger than she was," Mr. Stewart's voice broke.

Foyle felt the bile inching higher. His dear Sam had been violated in a way that no woman ever should. How could he have suspected that the lively young woman he had immediately liked and grown to love had ever endured such trauma?

"They searched for Joel Stevens, but couldn't find him. He'd disappeared." Mr. Stewart drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. "It was nearly two months later and Samantha had healed physically; emotionally, though, she was still withdrawn. She didn't play with her girlfriends as she'd done before. They came over frequently, but they'd rarely leave the house."

"One weekend, all of Sam's brothers were home. They were going to the Jamesons' for a traditional bonfire before school began. Sam, unbeknownst to her mother or me, followed them. She'd been asking questions about the bonfire earlier in the day, but hadn't shown any further interest." He closed his eyes. "If we'd known she wanted to go, we'd have made sure to go with her, or at the very least, her brothers would have watched over her." He rubbed a hand over his face, taking a moment.

_She was watching her friends and brothers from the edges of the corn field, in the dark, when Joel Stevens found her. He covered her mouth and held a knife to her throat, warning her not to make a sound. While dragging her backwards to the Jamesons' barn, just as he'd done before, Joel tripped and lost his grip on her. He fell to the ground as Samantha pushed off him and ran. She then tripped and fell. He'd gotten back to his feet, and had started toward her. She turned over and saw him coming. She scrambled in a backwards crawl away from him, but her skirt caught and she couldn't get on her feet. When she tried to free her skirt, she realized it was caught on a pitchfork. She raised the pitchfork suddenly, just as Joel Stevens reached her._

Foyle could hear the quiet sobs coming from the other room where he knew Mrs. Stewart was trying not to hear the retelling of her daughter's brutal attacks.

"She killed him, impaled him through the chest."

* * *

><p>The drive back to Hastings was quiet except for Milner's periodic musings and Foyle's quick one-word answers. Neither felt like making small talk, they had too many thoughts and too many disturbing images on their minds.<p>

It was nearing eight o'clock when they pulled up in front of the station, and the sun was just beginning to set behind it. The two officers lumbered inside, heavy-hearted. Milner waited silently at the front desk with Sergeant Brooks as they watched their boss trudge down the stairs to the lower level.

His only concern was for Sam.

He found her in her cell, on a cot, curled up alongside the wall. He nodded at the sergeant on watch to unlock the door. Sam didn't look up as he entered, and he hadn't expected her to. He knew that she felt ashamed and was blaming herself for everything. As a policeman, Foyle had, in the past, dealt with assaulted women suffering from the after-effects of a rape. Although in this case, Sam had not been raped the night before, he was sure that she, like her father, was reliving the nightmare as if it had just occurred.

He approached her, placed his hat on the table, and then drew a chair up next to the cot. He sat down and waited for her to acknowledge him. But after several minutes, he couldn't wait any longer. He held his hand out for her, and while she didn't flinch, she wasn't accepting of it. She still hadn't met his eyes.

"Sam?" he asked. "Please look at me," he commanded softly. She darted her eyes to him without moving her head from against the wall.

"Thank you. Will you answer two questions for me, please?" Her gaze shifted to the tops of her knees, but she nodded.

"Did Henry Stevens threaten you in any way... verbally?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

She sniffled. "He said I would get what I had coming to me. An eye for an eye was only fair."

"What did that mean to you?"

She continued to chew on her nails, not answering, and Foyle thought he was going to have to ask again, when she finally put her hand down on the edge of the cot and pushed herself upright. "I killed his brother, so he was going to kill me."

Foyle inhaled deeply, relieved.

She sniffled again and the tears she'd been holding back came tumbling out.

This time, when he held his hand out to her, she welcomed it. As soon as she grasped his hand, he tugged gently on her arm and held out his other arm for her. She leaned toward him and allowed him to embrace her. Foyle cradled her head against his chest, listening to the quiet sobs and soft whimpers as he comforted her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rocked her gently.

"I don't want to hang. Really I don't."

"I know. And you won't."

She lifted her head and stared at him, wide-eyed. "I won't?"

"No, Sam. It was self-defense… just as before."

She stiffened and her eyes grew dark. "You know?"she gasped.

His eyes closed briefly and he nodded. "We went to see your parents."

She buried her head in his chest and started to shake, but he held her close and reassured her. "It's all right, Sam," he whispered. "It's just us. No one else needs to know. Just you, me and Sergeant Milner."

Foyle felt her hands clench and tug on the lapels of his jacket as she attempted to stifle her new round of sobs. He shushed her quietly, continuing to rock her.

When she finally quieted, he loosened his hold on her and let her inch backward. "You're free to go, Sam. Feel like getting out of here?"

She nodded, but did not smile. Her mind was plagued with the knowledge that he knew about her past. What would it mean for them now and in their future?

* * *

><p>After they climbed into the car, Sam asked him to take her home, to her flat. Foyle had planned for her to spend the night in his home, believing that she wouldn't want to be alone. He glanced at her where she remained curled against the door, staring out the window.<p>

When they pulled up to her building, she didn't move; just stared distantly down the street. Foyle climbed out and went around the car to open her door. She startled at first but then he presented his hand and she took it gratefully. Once they reached her door, he offered, "You could stay with me, Sam. You don't have to be alone."

Sam considered his offer a moment, nervously biting the inside of her cheek. "I don't know."

He lovingly caressed her hand with his thumb and softly asked her to stay with him again. "You can have the back room _and_ you don't have to talk about it yet. We should talk tomorrow, though." He knew she needed to compartmentalize this experience in her head as his employee rather than as his _girlfriend_, _lover_, _whatever they were_. He ached to hold her, comfort her, soothe her fears, but he'd give whatever she needed to help her deal with this trauma, and right now, she didn't want to talk.

She finally met his eyes, darting from one to the other, and then she acquiesced and told him she'd just grab a few things and be back.

Foyle waited for her at her door. A few minutes later, she returned carrying her suitcase and a coat. He took her suitcase then ushered her to the car.

Once they arrived at Foyle's home, she sat in front of the fireplace and stared silently into the ashes. Foyle felt a lump form in his throat. He didn't know what to do other than be there to catch her when she fell. He left her there while he took her suitcase to the back room before going to the kitchen to brew some tea.

On the drive back from Lyminster, he'd started piecing together little bits of information that should have clued him in that _something_ was wrong. There were Sam's nightmares and her sudden fright that she'd heard someone at the river when they'd been fishing. Of course, there was also her obvious lie to him about Henry Stevens when he'd walked in on their confrontation the previous morning. It suddenly occurred to him that Sam had been trying to keep the whole thing from him for a much different reason. Their relationship had become very serious. The logical next step, of course, would be for him to offer her marriage.

While the tea brewed, he wiped his hands on a towel and glanced through the kitchen's open doorway to check on her. She hadn't moved from her seat, still sitting forward and staring into the fireplace. He tilted his head down, considering the implications of what he'd discovered earlier that day. He wondered what it was that had triggered Sam's nightmares. It was something he'd have to broach with her before they married. He considered the time by the river. Foyle thought they'd enjoyed themselves rather well that day, but as he remembered the look on her face when she said she'd heard something, he realized it was yet another lie. Foyle clenched his eyes shut at the realization that their romantic relationship had started out with lies. He had to find a way to make Sam understand that she could trust him with anything.

Minutes later, he sat in the chair across from her and placed the tea tray down to serve her. She eyed him carefully. He wondered what she was thinking. When he handed her a cup, she met his gaze steadily then took it from his hands.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"For everything," she said. "I haven't been truthful and I knew it was wrong and yet... I couldn't tell you."

Foyle, for a moment, felt like a heel. Sam had obviously been trying to keep her experience behind her and to keep him from knowing, why he wasn't necessarily sure, but he was sure that she didn't want it to interfere with their burgeoning relationship.

Foyle took a sip of his tea as she did the same. Sam's hands trembled and the cup clanked against the saucer as she replaced it. Setting his cup down, he reached for hers and took it from her hands to place it on the table next to his. Holding his hand out to her, she accepted cautiously, a whimper escaping her lips as she stood and allowed him to settle her on his lap. Curling against his chest, tucking her head under his chin, Sam melted within the comfort of his arms.

"I didn't want you to find out like this. I thought there had to be a way for you to never find out."

"Why, Sam? Did you really think that I'd not be handle it?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you –"

"_Samantha,"_ he exclaimed. "Nothing that happened to you was your fault. You didn't do _anything_ wrong."

He held her for several minutes until her sniffles subsided and her breathing evened out. She sat up and tried to scoot off his lap, but he held her firmly until she met his eyes. He needed to make sure she understood he didn't blame her, for anything. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he leaned in and kissed her cheek softly.

"I'm tired, Sir."

"Yes, I'm sure you are." He helped her to her feet and guided her to the back room. She knew the way of course, but he didn't want to leave her side. Opening the door, he led her inside then put his arms around her once more. "Get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning."

He left her and returned to the living room. He put away the teacups, checked the front door, and turned off the lights before making his way to his room. But he couldn't help checking on Sam one more time. Knocking on her door, he asked, "Sam, are you all right?"

A couple seconds later, Sam opened the door. "I was just going to turn out the light."

"If you need anything during the night, _please_ let me know."

She nodded then said, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sam."

* * *

><p>Foyle had risen early and dressed for work, making as little noise as possible so as to allow Sam to sleep in. He'd had very little sleep himself, but there was paperwork he needed to finish on the Stevens case to clear Sam. In the wee hours of the morning, he'd heard a noise coming from Sam's room and had checked on her. He'd found her in the middle of a nightmare, thrashing around and tangled in the bedcovers. Not wanting to startle her, he gently whispered her name and softly caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. It took two or three attempts but she finally quieted down into what he hoped was a restful slumber.<p>

He wished he didn't have to wake her, but he also would regret not telling her and leaving her to wake up in an empty house. Tapping on her door, he waited for a response, but not getting one on the second try, he opened the door and found her sound asleep, facing away from the door with the pillow over her head. Chewing on his cheek, he considered waking her. Still, he didn't want to leave her without letting her know where he'd gone. Crossing to her bedside, he tentatively patted her arm that held the pillow over her head. To his surprise, she responded immediately, bringing the pillow down off her face.

Sam yawned then sheepishly apologised before mumbling a 'good morning' to him. She started to sit up but he gently halted her and told her to stay in bed.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he apologized. "But I didn't want you to feel I abandoned you when you woke."

Squinting, she looked back at him and noted his suit. "You're going to work?"

"Yes, paperwork," he stated simply. She nodded her understanding. "Get some rest. I'll be back this afternoon." Again, she nodded.

As he closed the door, he chanced another look at Sam and watched her sink back into the bed, curling her arm around the pillow and tucking it against her chest. He'd never before wished that he was a pillow, but in that instant he did, if only to provide some small measure of comfort to her.

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: As promised, another Friday night and another chapter.

* * *

><p>That afternoon, following one failed attempt after another to concentrate on his paperwork, Foyle finally managed to finish the case file on Henry Stevens. After filing the paperwork, he grabbed his coat and hat and left work... early. No one questioned him as he walked out of the building. He had a mission and it involved his young, blonde, <em>former, <em>female driver – the woman who'd laid claim to his heart. He'd give anything to make this terrible ordeal go away. The least he could do was continue to ensure that she was safe and sound.

What he hadn't expected was to find his house empty. He called out for her but got no answer. After divesting himself of his coat, he walked through the house and looked into the back room where Sam had spent the night. The door was left ajar and the bed was made. Sam's suitcase was not in sight.

His first thought was that Sam had gone back to her flat. Foyle closed his eyes against the thought that she would leave without telling him. But as he retraced his steps, he saw an envelope on the dining table. He recognized the handwriting.

Running a hand over his face, he picked up the envelope and opened it.

_Dearest Christopher,_

_Please don't be alarmed at receiving this letter. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist checking on me and would be upset at not finding me in your home. Try as I might, I couldn't sleep anymore. I spent the morning thinking and concluded that I needed to go away, to go home to Lyminster._

_Please don't think that I am in any way breaking off with you. I do so love you. But I never wanted you to know about any of this, and now that you do, I know you'll fret over me and I can't really deal with that and everything else all at once. I need time alone and I know that my parents will give me that, just as they did when I was younger. While talking about it is probably what I should do, I just can't. Not yet, but maybe after I've had some time to think it through I'll be able to do so with you. Until then, please allow me this time._

_Love,_

_Sam_

The letter was not as bad as he'd feared. She was right; he'd been alarmed to receive it. His first thought was of how his son had broken off with her two years ago. But the Sam he knew would never do such a thing, especially after having received such a rejection herself. Still, she was gone. And she'd asked him not to help her—to sit on his hands. That wasn't something he was used to; no, he was much more accustomed to being the one riding in on a white horse and saving the day, especially with her. _How times have changed_, he thought. What was he to do without her?

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he contemplated his options. They'd spent nearly every single day together since they'd started courting—even before. All he had now was work, and as soon as he retired he wouldn't even have that. He tilted his head as a thought popped into his mind. Looking about his home, he realized how much it hadn't changed over the years since his wife had passed. Perhaps it was time for him to finally deal with the past and make some much-needed changes.

* * *

><p>"How's Sam doing?" Milner asked as Foyle passed him in the hall on the way to his office.<p>

Foyle stopped short and turned to his sergeant with an exasperated look on his face. "I really don't know." He motioned for Milner to walk with him to his office. "I received a letter yesterday, but it gave me no clue as to her temperament. If she were _here_ and told me what she did in the letter, she probably would have rattled on for several minutes without letting me get a word in." Milner shut the door behind them as Foyle doffed his hat and coat and continued, "But as I read it, I couldn't help but feel that she was grasping for things to write about." She'd actually told him everything he'd ever need to know about Lyminster... and without one word regarding her feelings or their relationship.

Milner nodded. He knew what Foyle meant. "She's trying to make you believe she's doing well, which I'm not surprised about. She did the same when her billet was bombed."

Foyle smirked. He remembered quite well how she'd avoided the topic of her sleeping arrangements. It wasn't until recently that he'd learned she had stayed one night at Milner's home, and how that had turned out. He also remembered his surprise at finding her lying on the cot in a cell at the station. If he'd known of her dire straits in finding a place to stay from the beginning, he would have offered her the back room of his home that first night. "I have this dreadful feeling that she's not doing as well as she tries to make it sound in her letters."

"Why not go and see her?" Milner offered.

Foyle eyed the younger man. Milner was of an age where he would still be that impetuous, that spontaneous. Foyle was not. He had to think things through. Besides, he was doing as Sam had asked, giving her the distance she needed. He shook his head, at which Paul stared at him with an expression of impatience. Foyle grumbled, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's been three weeks. You know as well as I do that she's probably chewing at the bit to see you, but probably afraid to just show up."

Foyle blinked.

"She left in a hurry, without a word to you, and is probably worried what you must think. Have you talked to her, answered her letters?"

Foyle shut and opened his eyes again. "Hmm."

"Sir, if I may, we have the Bedsworth case in hand. I can finish it up. Why not visit her? See for yourself how she's doing and... how things stand?"

While Foyle was an introspective and somewhat introverted man in his later years, he'd taken to talking to Milner about his relationship with Sam since receiving Mr. Stewart's approval of their courtship. As he'd earlier suspected, Milner had already deduced the budding romance between his boss and colleague when Foyle finally told him. It seemed like such a long time ago already.

Foyle deliberated his sergeant's suggestion, but only for a moment. He hadn't even taken his chair yet and only glanced at the paperwork piled on the desk. The decision was easy. He scooped up his hat and coat, nodding at Milner as he walked back to the door. "I'll be back in the morning."

* * *

><p>The drive to Lyminster gave Foyle time to reassess Sam's letters. As Milner had pointed out, he hadn't written back—that is to say, he hadn't sent a letter back. He had attempted to write two letters, and each time he ended up folding and stuffing them into his desk drawer at home. He'd considered replying to her in the same spirit as she'd written to him, telling her about a case, how the move from the older station to the new was going, and about Andrew's disappearance. But each time he put his thoughts into words, he became frustrated with the fact that he wasn't actually talking to her, seeing her face as he told her these things, or hearing her inevitable questions at certain points. It just wasn't the same.<p>

As he drew closer to Lyminster, he took the opportunity to glance at the farms, the fields and the houses on either side of the road. It struck him that any one of them could have been the farm where Sam had been attacked at the young age of fifteen. It also occurred to him that she'd had to live here for years after the events. It had to have been a traumatic time, but it also had molded her into the woman she was now. Somehow she'd found the strength, after the assault and killing another person, to move on, to understand that life was worth living.

During his years as a police officer, he'd known women who had been raped. In one case, the woman was able to put it behind her, marry, and have children. The other woman, however, couldn't come to terms with what had happened and ended up taking her own life. _What a waste…_

Sam had chosen the former course in life. Though her latest experience had been nearly as traumatic, he hoped that she still could carry on and find the joy in life. He didn't really know what to expect when he saw her, but he prayed that she was at least coping. He also longed to know that she hadn't given up on him.

He pulled up in front of her parents' home. It was as quiet and serene as ever. He left his hat in the car, made his way to the front door, and knocked. A moment later, Mr. Stewart walked onto the enclosed porch, a small towel in hand, smiling. It was a good first impression of how things were in the Stewart household.

"Mr. Foyle!" Mr. Stewart greeted cheerily, opening the door for him.

"Sir," he greeted in return. "Please call me Christopher."

"Only if you do the same: Iain."

"Iain it is, then."

"I'm glad you've come," Iain began. "I was afraid there'd been a falling out between the two of you."

Christopher stopped short. "Has Sam said something to make you think we've broken off?"

Iain suddenly appeared concerned. "No, not at all... but we hadn't heard anything from you, and I know she's written a few times."

Foyle looked ashamedly at his feet. "That's why I'm here."

Iain looked the younger man up and down before nodding understandingly. "She's in the back, in the garden, with her mother. I'm just finishing up a light lunch," he added, holding up the towel he held. "Please go ahead. I know Samantha will be _thrilled_ to see you."

Christopher tilted his head in thought then walked to the back door. He glimpsed the young woman he'd come to adore over the last five years through the partially open door and his breath caught. He was transfixed by the sight of her.

Sam was standing near the garden, staring up at the sky, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. The light breeze cascaded over her, ruffling her summer frock and the wisps of hair framing her face. A young girl, maybe four or five years of age, was playing in the dirt at her feet. Sam's mother, Eleanor, who had been digging purposefully, wiped her hands on her apron as she also looked up to see at what Sam was gazing. A woman shouted from nearby, diverting Sam's attention from the blue above. Sam waved cheerily then knelt by the young girl and helped her dust off her hands before scooting her in the direction the shout had come from. The child ran cheerfully off to who Foyle assumed was her mother.

As he looked back at Sam, he was met with the intensity of her brown eyes. He opened the door further and stepped out into the sunlight. The look of astonishment on her face was quickly replaced with a glorious open-mouthed smile. She nearly danced the short distance to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly... in front of her mother. He held her gently at first; then more tightly as he surrendered to her kiss. When they broke apart, Christopher met her mother's eyes. Instead of chastising, she smiled as she passed them, telling Sam, "I think we're finished, Samantha. Why don't you two take a long walk?"

Sam smirked at Christopher as she replied, "We'll be back in an hour."

"Take your time," her mother called back. "You have the whole afternoon."

Sam smiled at Christopher cheerily, leaning against his side and grasping his hand.

Christopher tucked a loose curl behind her ear and caressed her cheek. "A walk, then?"

She nodded against his hand.

"You're looking well, Sam."

"I feel good. Mother's been pushing food in front of me every chance she gets," she laughed as she patted her tummy. "If I stay here much longer, I'll have to start letting out my dresses."

He chuckled along with her, and then released her hand so he could gather her closer. "I've missed you," he said earnestly.

"I've missed you too. Did you get my letters?" she asked.

"Hmm... yes," he drawled. "That's why I'm here. I'm afraid I've been remiss in not writing back."

She shook her head. "I didn't expect you to. I just wanted to make sure you knew I was thinking of you."

Christopher pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

Looking up at the sun as they readied to stroll, he realised how warm he was. He removed his jacket and stepped away from her to lay it on a chair near the back door.

Sam held her hand out to him and they walked off toward the front of the house arm in arm. As they walked, she pointed out a few memorable places from her childhood or told him about neighbours and their children. They rambled through the neighbourhood until they were on the edge of town.

"Care to see the river where my friends and I used to fish?"

"Is it still good for fishing?"

She considered for a moment, and then shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't really been down there in quite awhile, at least not that far," she answered, biting her lower lip. "We should take a look."

He nodded and they made their way hand in hand onto a path leading to the small river. They'd only walked for a few minutes when he felt Sam's grasp tighten significantly. He glanced at her face, where her tension was plain as she bit her cheek. Her eyes darted back and forth over the scenery in front of them. It struck him that this path was probably the same one she'd taken with her friends when she was fifteen.

Foyle stopped suddenly, still grasping her hand, causing her to teeter momentarily. She'd gone two steps ahead of him and had to turn around to face him.

She looked at him questioningly.

"Maybe we should head back."

She shook her head. "Let's carry on."

He closed the distance between them and spoke softly. "Is this where it happened?"

She nodded before looking behind her at a barn not more than one hundred feet ahead. She turned back to him and told him, "I went there yesterday."

Foyle frowned. "By yourself?"

"I had to." Seeing the look of concern on his face, she added, "You know me. When I want to do something, I just do it."

"Sam—"

"It's all right. I'm ok." She turned around, standing at his side and linking her arm with his, staring off at the barn. "It was... difficult at first." She looked down at her feet, rolling her lip between her teeth. "I saw it all happening, as if it wasn't me… as if I was watching it all unfold in front of me. It wasn't until I reached the barn door, clinging to it, that I realised I couldn't remember walking the last several feet."

Foyle put an arm around her waist and held her tightly, hating the trembling in her voice, knowing the reason it was there.

She continued, "I stepped inside and... I felt dizzy. I sat down on the workbench near the door and... I don't know. I must have sat there half an hour at least before I realised it was just me and that no one else was there." She paused, looking at her shoes. "Joel Stevens died a long time ago. It was only at that moment that I knew he couldn't hurt me anymore."

She looked at him, staring into the depths of his blue-grey eyes. "You'd think it would have changed through all these years and with a new family living there… but even the hay was stored in the same place." She diverted her eyes from his, looking down at the ground once again. "When I did finally stand, I didn't feel dizzy again. I merely felt..." She smiled at him. "I felt as if a heavy veil had been lifted from my eyes. I wasn't frightened anymore."

Foyle felt in awe of her courage. Withstanding all of this pain had of course contributed to the woman she was now, and she amazed him more than ever. "You're a brave woman, Samantha Stewart. I'm so very proud of you."

She ducked her head into the crook of his neck, wrapping an arm around him. "It was all because of you, _Christopher_ _Foyle_."

"How so?" he asked with a lift of his brow.

"I knew you were waiting for me, or at least I hoped you were."

He grasped her more firmly. "I'd really rather you _know_ that I have been—and always will be, Sam."

She nodded. "Yes. I knew that this was something I had to do before I could come back to you."

He turned to face her and cradled her face between his hands. His voice was eager. "Does that mean you're ready to come back?"

She nodded and smiled. "Not today, but… I was thinking perhaps this weekend?"

He grinned widely. "_Please do_," he implored and dropped his hands back to his sides, but quickly taking one of her hands in his again.

She giggled. "Has it been that bad... not having me there, chattering away like a mynah bird?"

"You have no idea, sweetheart. I've missed you dearly."

Sam's eyebrows rose at the endearment. "Sweetheart? Am I your sweetheart?" she teased.

"Definitely."

"I like that." She glanced down the path. "Shall we continue?"

He stepped to the side and they walked on, past the barn and on toward the river.

* * *

><p>An hour later, they returned to the house to find two cars behind Christopher's car. Walking up the pavement, they heard voices from inside the house. Sam stopped suddenly and listened; then she grinned broadly, her eyes sparkling. "They're home!" she exclaimed joyously.<p>

Christopher was at a loss as Sam hurried him to the front door. But he soon realised that he was entering a very happy family reunion. Sam's brothers, dressed in uniform, surrounded her mother and father, crowding the front room.

Christopher stood back as her brothers caught sight of their baby sister, and then one after another caught her up in their arms, hugging her. Tears were streaming down her mother's face and each of the four boys seemed to be talking at once. For a moment, Christopher felt out of place, but just as quickly, Sam returned to his side, clasping his hand and leaning against his arm. She started introducing her brothers to him, but then proceeded to fumble at introducing _him._

Before Christopher could say anything, Sam's father stepped up and introduced him as Sam's _beau_. All the boys looked him over, a bit shocked. But, as soon as they saw the wide grin on their little sister's face, all started to smile. She obviously was happy, so they were happy for her.

Four hours later, everyone sat around the table, enjoying a family meal. The boys—men—were teasing Sam about her love of crime novels when she airily told them all about her work with the police. They were dumbstruck, and Christopher grinned behind his cup of tea. She'd stunned them and he could tell they weren't quite ready to believe her.

Sam nodded toward Christopher. "He's Detective Chief Superintendent of Hastings. I've been there..." she hesitated, visibly counting in her head. "I've been there the past five years."

Her brother Thomas looked from her to Christopher, then back to her again, and asked, "What your job?"

She gave him a cheeky grin and said, "I was his driver."

Her brothers broke out in laughter and Thomas shook his head. "I _knew_ there was a reason for teaching you to drive."

"And I am eternally grateful that you did," Christopher interjected.

This brought out another round of guffaws and laughter from the brothers. Sam's mother and father watched their children's and Christopher's interactions fondly, sharing in the laughter. Later, Christopher would remember appreciating for the first time that evening what it felt like to have siblings, as he was an only child.

The sun was just starting to set when Christopher started saying his goodbyes. Each boy shook his hand before Sam's mother gave him a quick hug followed by Iain's firm handshake. Sam took his proffered arm and walked him outside. She reiterated her plans to go back to Hastings at the end of the week, though not certain which day it would be.

They reached the car and Christopher tossed his jacket into the front seat. For a moment, they stood quietly, each memorising the other's face.

Sam stepped closer and put her hands on his chest as he wrapped his hands around her waist. "I've wanted to say I'm sorry for leaving as suddenly as I did. I needed this, but I regret leaving you with just a letter."

"It would be easy to just pass it off, Sam, but I'd be lying." He watched her face fall. "I wasn't sure what to expect when I drove down this morning. Although you've been steadfastly writing to me, I didn't know what reception I would get when I finally saw you. You don't know the relief I felt when you smiled so brightly."

"I'm sorry. I'm really so very terribly sorry, Christopher. I never meant to hurt you." Her regret was palpable, and though she was heartily ashamed of her brash behavior, other regrets of past actions were eating her up inside. _How am I ever to explain it all to him? _she asked herself.

"You didn't hurt me. I was just... worried."

Sam fidgeted with the buttons of his shirt as she rolled her lip between her teeth. "I wish you didn't have to go back already."

"I know. But I still have work to do."

"Have they said anything about your replacement?"

He shook his head. "Not a word. It might be a while yet." He kissed her cheek gently. "Will you call me before you leave so I can collect you at the train station?" he asked.

"Well," she sighed. "I was planning to just surprise you, but if you insist, I suppose I could."

He grinned fondly. "Surprises are good, too."

They grew silent once more. Laughter floated on the air from her brothers inside the house. Quietly laughing, Sam said, "They'll be up for hours yet."

"It'll be a late night, then."

"Yep."

He sighed deeply. "I should go."

She nodded.

Cupping her cheek, he pressed his lips to hers. She immediately opened for him, deepening the kiss instantly, and clung to him as if her life depended on it. Christopher held her close, their bodies as close as two could be fully clothed. Sam broke the kiss with a gasp as she clung to his shoulders. He stole this moment to trail kisses along her neck, making her arch her neck and grant him access to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Her response to his kisses urged him on, to cup her hips, pressing her more firmly against him and the heat of his arousal. A deep moan of pleasure escaped her lips, bringing him back to the here and now. She slowly followed him back to earth, breathing heavily as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

He rubbed small circles on her back, while thinking that marriage might have to come sooner rather than later.

"Sam?"

"Hmm."

"Perhaps we should talk about getting married sooner rather than later," he suggested.

Her head shot up in surprise. "Sooner?"

His lips quirked. "Well, it is the logical next step, don't you think?"

She darted a look over his eyes, then to his lips, then back to his eyes again. "I, um, I know that we've... really?"

He nodded, shut his eyes momentarily. "Samantha Stewart, will you—"

She placed a finger on his lips, halting him mid-sentence. "Please, not yet. I..." she groaned heartbreakingly. "God, I... please don't think I'm turning you down. It's just... I've just... ugh." She embraced him fiercely, pressing her cheek to his. "I wish I could explain."

Christopher shushed her, telling her that it was all right, but she shook her head. "No, it's not all right. I'm not saying not to ask, just... not yet. Please. I need to... there's something I need to take care of first, before … I just... I don't know how to handle it... yet."

He gently released her, just enough to get her to look at him. "Is it something I can help you with?" he asked.

Her shoulders slumped and she exhaled slowly. "No... I mean... well..." Sam frowned a moment in consideration. "I don't know. Please, let me think about it and then maybe when I see you this weekend, I'll tell you."

He agreed.

She placed her lips firmly against his, and then pulled gently back so that only a hairs-breadth of space separated them. He looked deeply into her eyes, clasping the rest of her body against him, and said, "I love you."

A tear trickled down her cheek and she sniffled. "I love you too, _Sir._"

He released her finally and she took a step back as he got in the car. He gave her a quick wink and said, "I'll see you in a week."

"Yes. One week."

He switched on the ignition, looking back at her before driving away.

She blew him a kiss, but more tears flowed as she turned toward the house.

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I want to thank my friends and betas for their help in editing this chapter. There were some insightful exchanges and suggestions. On that note, I also have to add that although I know some may feel that the discussion in this chapter would never happen between a father and daughter at that time, I doubt a loving father, with the circumstances and one who has had to counsel members of his flock regarding unexpected pregnancies, wouldn't at least listen. I'm sure there were some who would have just walked away, but I didn't take Iain Stewart to be like that in the show. He was very proper, but he was also very frank with Sam at their luncheon.

Haven't had much in the way of reviews the last couple of chapters, so I hope I still have some readers left. :)

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><p>One arm wrapped around her waist and her other hand pressed against her lips, Samantha Stewart stared longingly for several minutes as she watched Christopher drive away, remaining there even when she could no longer see his car. She pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress—one of Christopher's that he'd lent to her earlier in the day—and pressed it gently against her wet eyes and patted her nose. <em>What am I going to do?<em>

She turned back to the house. Although she was happy her brothers were home, she really didn't feel like sitting at the table or in the living room and chatting. Still, she trudged inside, placing the handkerchief back into her pocket. They'd know she'd been crying, of course, but would likely assume it was because Christopher had left. That was indeed one part of it, but much the greater part was her distress at having to face marrying him… and all that marriage entailed.

While staying with her parents, Sam had visited with her married childhood friend, Margaret. Margaret was one of her best friends from their school days and had been with her earlier the same day Joel Stephens had forced himself on her. When Sam told her that she was stepping out with Christopher, Margaret had wanted all the details, asking a million questions all at once. What does he do, how old is he, had they kissed and so on?

Sam jumped at the chance to discuss her feelings about Christopher with her friend, and let it slip that she had reservations about the physical side of marriage. Margaret didn't comprehend Sam's meaning at first, so Sam asked her bluntly if it hurt _the first time_, and then she just as quickly averted her eyes and ducked her head. _I can't believe I just asked that_.

The stunned expression on her childhood friend's face expressed the same surprise at Sam's bluntness. But Margaret took pity on her friend. She explained that the first night hurt, like a pinch, but that it wasn't a lasting pain. It went away very quickly. She also said she'd never felt the pain any other times—just the first. Sam couldn't imagine what her friend could mean, as her own pain had lasted for days and was certainly not slight. _No_, _it felt more like a branding iron. _She remembered wishing she were dead._ So how can I make love to my dear, dear husband and not wish I were dead instead?_

Sam stood silently at the door, trembling uncontrollably as she relived those terrifying, painful hours. She'd tried everything she could to push Joel Stevens off her, even digging her nails into his hands and arms, but she was just a girl and her futile attempts were no match for the strapping grown farm boy.

A roar of laughter from one of her brothers startled her and she jumped, crashing back into reality. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sam opened the door and walked in. She spent the next half hour listening to her brothers' stories about their experiences and her mother's gasps of horror in response. Trying to think about how to resolve her problem and also listen attentively to her brothers soon wore thin. Finally, Sam was able to slip away to the quiet of the garden.

The stars were shining brightly, the skies as clear as they had been earlier in the day. She sat on the damp grass, wrapping her arms around her calves and resting her chin on her knees. Ruminating on her problem, Sam came to the conclusion that she was never going to know what would happen unless she experienced it firsthand, again. _How am I supposed to experience it again without being married? How can I marry someone_—Christopher—_and not share that part of me with him?_ It was an impossible situation. She shook her head and then buried her face against her knees, weeping softly with frustration. The thought of disappointing him in marriage pained her deeply. He was experienced, having been married before, so he'd know something was wrong. Even when she'd stepped out with Andrew and Joe, she'd never wanted to be touched or kissed as much as she enjoyed it with Christopher. He was everything she could ever dream of wanting, and he was the only one she'd ever considered letting touch her in such an intimate manner. Suddenly, Sam's head shot up, her eyes round with excitement. _Maybe I could convince… _She hadn't heard the footsteps approaching.

Her father stood next to her, peering down at her with a frown. "Samantha, are you all right?"

She sighed heavily, looking up into his face. "I'm in a bit of a dilemma, Dad."

"Anything I can help with, child?" he asked.

"It's not really something a daughter discusses with her father."

Iain let out a soft 'ah' as he picked up an empty bucket, turned it over and took a seat beside his daughter, resting his arms on his knees. "Does it have to do with Christopher?"

Sam started to nod, but then stammered, "Yes… no—I mean, yes, but it's really me."

Iain sighed, frustrated. "Samantha, has Christopher asked you to marry him?"

Sam was shocked. "How did… how could… were you listening?"

Iain chuckled. "No, I did not eavesdrop. I've just had a lot of experience."

At his turn of phrase, Sam groaned and dropped her head against her legs once again. She felt her father's hand smoothing circles on her back.

He furrowed his brow. "Is it really that terrible?"

"You've no idea," she grumbled.

"Samantha, child, look at me… please."

She lifted her head just enough to rest her cheek on her knees, peeking up at her father. She saw him narrow his eyes and knew he could see the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"What's troubling you so?"

"I just… maybe I should talk to Mum about this," she said. Sam could see the dawning comprehension as his eyes rounded and he looked at his daughter studiously, as if seeing her as an adult for the first time. His expression almost made her more anxious than dealing with her problem did.

"Sam, are you, um… are you and Christopher—"

"No, Dad, no… oh, no." She quickly cut him off, not able to stand the thought of talking about this with her father. Still, she couldn't help mumbling under her breath, "That's the problem." She hadn't expected him to hear her, but his sharp intake of air and the sudden stillness of his hand on her back told her he had done.

She cringed inwardly as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was shaking his head. This was a disaster.

He started to say something, but she interrupted again. "It's not what you think."

"Then would you please explain _what_ it is, if not that? Because it sounds quite a lot like—"

"Dad, please," she pleaded.

"What is it, Samantha? You have me thoroughly confused now."

"I can't. I don't know how to explain it."

"Just start at the beginning."

She threw her head back in frustration but blurted out, "Joel Stevens."

He visibly flinched. "That was a long time ago, Samantha."

"It _feels_ like just yesterday," she sobbed. "I can't marry Christopher, Dad."

It was plain to her that her father thought he understood, but he was soon to find out it was much worse than he thought.

"He already knows, Samantha, so –"

"No... I mean, yes, he knows, but… how can I be with Christopher _as a wife_ if I'm scared of _that_."

Her father looked askance at her. "I don't understand."

Sam had grown exceedingly discouraged and the stress of the situation was making matters worse. "It _hurt_..." she ground out through her teeth before stifling a whimper with her fist to her lips.

Iain Stewart had never known as much pain as he did at that moment, even compared to the day his daughter was brought home battered and bruised. Her soft cry of anguish was not so much about the physical pain as it was about reliving the worst day of her young life, and about the fear of losing the man she loved because of it. He wrapped her in his embrace, as only a father can do, and rocked her quietly. He had no words of wisdom for what his daughter was going through. He wanted to tell her it wouldn't be like _that_, but he couldn't know. He didn't know how she would respond to her husband or how badly she'd been injured by the assault.

Sam sniffled, and then gently removed her father's arm from around her shoulders. She leaned back and looked her father in the eye before her courage deserted her. "I don't know what to do. I don't want my, his… _our_ wedding night to be a disappointment to him. I don't want… I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to see Joel Stevens in my head or feel his hands on me when I am with my husband."

"I don't know what to tell you, my dear. I can say that it shouldn't hurt, but I don't know how you will deal with it. And I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had those images or feelings still."

"I didn't for the longest time. But when Christopher… when he… when he kisses me, I don't, but then suddenly I sometimes can see Joel and I remember it," she explained quietly.

They sat silently, close, but so far apart, each a little lost in their own worlds.

"I can't take the chance and marry him if I don't know how it will be. I can't do that to him."

Iain squeezed his eyes shut then looked at his daughter. "Samantha, he loves you. Whatever happens, he won't love you any less."

She disagreed, shaking her head.

Iain watched his daughter stand up and pace in front of him.

"You don't know that… I don't know that," she said. "And I won't know unless… we _do_."

"Samantha…" he gasped. She couldn't be suggesting what he thought.

"Dad, I _need_ to know, or I have to end this with him."

"Although I know things are different now than they were before the war, I think it unlikely that Christopher would approve. A man of his era, not that different to mine –"

"He might," she interjected, lowering her voice, "if he can't help it."

TBC...


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I'm sorry for the lateness of posting this chapter but it went through a rewrite at the last minute.

The rating on this chapter is M and I'll be changing the rating of the whole story to M in a few days. If you can't see the story, you may have to change your settings.

Hope you enjoy!

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><p>One week later to the day, Samantha Stewart returned to Hastings. It was a night fit for neither man nor beast. A thunderstorm had been brewing all day, but Mother Nature chose to deluge the South Downs with loud, thunderous crashes and blinding lightning just as Sam departed the train. She wanted to surprise Christopher, catch him off-guard. Her plan was set. She would let their reunion progress to a point so that he wouldn't <em>want<em> to tell her no. That they'd both become so overwhelmed by their passion and desire that, as he'd told her before, he wouldn't be able to stop. For her, it was a promising plan.

Thunder boomed in the distance as she scampered from the cab to Christopher's front door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked once and waited. For a moment she feared he wasn't home. But she'd seen a light in his window, and heard music from his radio. Suddenly the door opened, spilling light over Sam, causing her to blink. Christopher stared down at her, open-mouthed, a dishtowel in one hand and his other hand on the doorknob.

Sam squealed with delight at Christopher's stunned expression, throwing herself into his open arms, forgetting that she was drenched. "You look just as you did the first time I walked into your office and announced I was your driver!"

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow," he murmured as he enfolded her in his arms. Suddenly Christopher sternly scolded her, "Samantha! You're soaking wet."

"Well, it is raining out."

"What did you do? _Walk_ here?" He ushered her inside, then retrieved her luggage before shutting the door.

She giggled at his mock snarling. "It was pouring when I stepped off the train and when I got in the cab."

"Well, you're soaked through," he reiterated, trying not to smile. She looked herself over and nodded. He held up her suitcase, a twinkle in his eye. "Tell me you have something in this to change into."

"Um, yes, I do." Suddenly, she wasn't sure how to explain her luggage, except to say that, in her excitement to see him, she'd come directly to his home. But he never asked.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, shaking his head while finally grinning.

"Well, I could suggest a few things."

He chuckled. "As you're dripping all over my floors, I suggest you change out of your wet clothes—in the other room."

"Absolutely."

He gestured for her to precede him to the back bedroom. "I suppose you haven't had dinner, either," he said, feigning irritation.

"Uh, no, I haven't," she replied as she watched him put her luggage on the bed.

Christopher turned to her, eyeing her rain-soaked clothes. He gently grasped her arms, running his hands up and down the length of them, providing a little comfort and warmth. "While you change, I'll fix you something to eat. I just put supper away, so it should still be warm. 'Back straight away." He started toward the door, but she placed a hand over his.

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome," he replied, then tilted his head in consideration. "I'm glad you're back. But didn't I say to ring, and I'd come collect you?"

"You did but you also said, 'Surprises are good too,'" she retorted, giving him a cheeky grin.

He smirked and gave a short shake of his head. "I'll just fetch you a towel."

That done, he went to work to prepare as hearty a meal for her as rations would allow, and to place the kettle on the stove. He was setting a plate and a cup of tea on the table when Sam walked into the dining room. She looked at the table and hummed in appreciation. Christopher refrained from doing likewise as he looked her over. She'd changed into a light-colored skirt and a blue cotton blouse with a V-neck collar. The most alluring part of her outfit, though, was her bare feet and legs. He loved a woman who walked around barefooted. _Hmm. _He held out the chair for her and pushed it in as she sat, all the while trying to quiet his musings on her smooth-looking calves.

Christopher poured a second cup of tea for himself and took his seat at the table. She shivered slightly and he asked, "Are you cold?"

"Just a bit. I didn't think to put on my cardigan."

He'd no intention of challenging her decision not to wear shoes. "How about I start a fire, hmm?" he asked, standing up.

Sam had been enjoying the delicious meal that Christopher had prepared for her, but suddenly, she lost interest. Mesmerised, she couldn't tear her eyes from him as he crouched in front of the fireplace. His rolled-up sleeves allowed her an unfettered view of the fine, muscular lines of his arms as he lifted the logs and placed them in the grate. She was still hungry, but no longer for food. Forget that she had carefully planned this night, the realization of what could happen, of what _would_ happen in just a few hours, had her utterly spellbound.

Christopher glanced up and smiled warmly at her. There was no way he could read her mind, and yet she felt as if he knew her every thought. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Sam smiled shyly back at him then urged herself to finish the last morsels before taking the plate and cups back into the kitchen. The solitude she found there gave her the moment she needed to calm her nerves as she fought an internal battle; she was on the verge of abandoning her plan to seduce her unsuspecting former boss.

She forced herself the few steps to the doorway. Christopher had lit the kindling and was stoking the small fire to get the wood to catch. As before, she was transfixed by her physical attraction to him, but when he stood, the flames finally catching the wood he had so carefully tended, the light flickered up to his face, making him look very gentle in the warm light. Her nervous anxiety instantly turned into molten warmth that cascaded through her body. This man standing before her could, _would_ one day be her husband. Her tension quickly vanished, leaving her a woman with a firm resolution. Before the night was over, she would have her answers. Hopefully, the night would end with Christopher Foyle teaching her the _true_ art of making love.

Sam made her way to his side, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm, and bestowing upon him a brilliant smile. "Thank you again. It was delicious."

"Hmm." He bent to give the fire one last flick then set the poker in its place before turning to face her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "So, what do you have planned for tonight?"

Sam was a smart woman, smarter than most gave her credit for. This was not an opening for her to announce her intentions. No, what she needed to do was what he'd just finished doing with the fire—a bit of coaxing. He'd already given her the ammunition she needed when he told her the last time they were trysting on the sofa that if he hadn't stopped when he had, he'd not have been able to stop later. She would _coax_ him until he couldn't say no. The plan was beautiful in its simplicity.

"We could play chess, or we could just sit here in front of the fire and listen to the radio," she suggested casually, wrapping her arms around his waist as he stroked her arms as he'd done earlier.

He nodded toward the sofa, and then sat and guided her to sit next to him, holding out an arm so she could relax into his side. They'd spent one or two evenings in just such a manner not long before their lives were thrown into chaos by the appearance of Henry Stevens. On those evenings, however, Sam hadn't had an ulterior motive. It was her dearest hope that he wouldn't figure it out until they were both past the point of no return—though she still felt a flash of fear when she thought of her possible sudden reaction as they reached that point. She didn't fully understand what the point of no return would be for her, but she sincerely hoped he knew for himself… or perhaps it would be more productive if he didn't. Sam squinted, pondering. The romantic music playing on the radio made her smile at its appropriateness. Repositioning fractionally, she tucked her legs up onto the sofa underneath her and snuggled in closer.

He sighed contentedly. "I'm very pleased that you're back, Sam."

"Mmm, me too. I've missed you," she replied.

"How are your brothers?"

"Oh, quite well, mainly. Thomas was renewing his acquaintance with Betty Moreland. I expect something will develop there." Sam chewed her lip, not wanting to mention marriage, but when she'd left the house that afternoon, it sounded as though a wedding wouldn't be too far off for them. "Stephen was planning on going to London for an interview, and James and Henry are staying for a bit to help Dad with some church repairs."

"Sounds as though they're settling back in, then," Foyle assessed.

"You're probably right. I talked with Thomas a good deal the last few days. He said he was still dealing with some problems—a few nightmares, I think—but he wouldn't tell me what about, exactly."

"Did he ask about us?"

"He did, actually," Sam replied with a chuckle. She lifted her head off his shoulder to meet his gaze. "He asked me how serious we were."

"And you said…?"

Sam looked longingly into his eyes and replied, "As serious as two people in love can be." He started to smile and then she added, "He didn't like my answer."

Christopher's smile faltered and Sam giggled. "He wanted something a bit more direct, but I couldn't."

"You could've if you'd let me ask—"

"But I couldn't let you, then," she interrupted.

"Can you now?" he asked frankly.

Biting her lower lip and dipping her head, she quietly replied, "I don't know."

He tilted her chin back up with his fingers and looked into her eyes. "What is it, Sam? Is there anything I can do?"

She glanced away. This was an opening, a way to explain to him what she needed, but this wasn't how she'd planned things. Licking her bottom lip and rolling it between her teeth, she realized she must look a veritable child to him with her blasted indecisiveness. She was about to answer him when he said the one thing she hoped he wouldn't.

"Sam, marry me."

She closed her eyes at the anguish in her heart as she automatically answered, "I can't."

His sharp intake of breath and the sudden shift of his body away from her startled her. Within the few seconds it took for her to realize what she'd said, he'd stood and walked to the fireplace.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she said. "Please let me explain."

"What other possible meaning could there be for it, Sam?" he said, staring into the fire.

"Please," she begged, sitting forward on the sofa. He refused to turn around and look at her. This was not going well at all. "I…" She floundered for the right words, but came up empty. Utterly defeated, she dropped her head in her hands. Suddenly remembering the night she'd asked him if he was courting her, she recalled his saying, _"Sam, just ask it, straight on."_ Then the words came to her. "I _do_ need your help."

She sounded to him as though she were a million miles away. Finally turning to face her, he saw her hunched over, head in her hands.

He closed the distance between them, kneeling before her and reaching between her hands to lift her head. Tears were streaming down her face, and his heart thumped against his ribs with deep concern.

"I _want_ to marry you," she cried. "I do. I just… I can't… I don't know if I can… can—"

"Can what, Sam?" he prompted, softly.

Her tear-filled eyes darted back and forth between his; then with the swiftness of a feline, Sam grasped the lapels of his shirt and pulled him forward to press her lips to his mouth. And just as he'd sometimes done, she licked his lips until he granted her access. Their tongues battled as she deepened the kiss, pulling him ever forward. She felt his hands clenching her shoulders, searching for purchase to keep from falling on top of her. Without breaking the kiss, she scooted off the sofa and knelt on the floor with him. His hands moved from her shoulders, one inching its way down her back to her hip and the other to tangle with the loose curls at the base of her neck. She was sure he would pause and insist on knowing what she needed his help with, but instead, when he changed course it was to press heavenly soft kisses to her cheek and down her throat, eliciting a gasp of pleasure when he touched the tender spot just below her ear.

God, how he'd missed her, missed this. His days had been dull without her sunny disposition and exuberant conversation. He'd missed their evening chats by the fire and the flare of intelligence in her chess moves. When he'd visited her at her parents' home, he discovered a deep need to be with her, more than the physical, but tonight, it would take every bit of self-control he could muster to keep his passion in check and not take her on the floor.

The warmth she'd felt earlier while watching him tend the fire bloomed inside Sam once again, weakening her legs. Christopher held her tightly against him, his hard length pressing against her belly, and then slowly laid her down on the floor.

Suddenly, he broke the kiss and helped her to sit up. Breathing heavily, he said, "We need to stop, Sam."

"No!" she cried out. "Please don't stop," she pleaded between gasps of breath.

"We have to," he said softly, holding her close to his body.

"No, we don't. Please… just… I need..."

He shook her lightly. "Sam, this isn't right. You tell me you can't marry me, then ask me to help you—"

She pulled back from him and watched realization flit across his eyes. He started to shake his head, but she nodded to confirm his understanding.

"Sam?"

"I need to know," she stated simply. "I can't… marry you… until I know. Until I know I can do this."

His eyes danced over her face, taking in every nuance. His jaw clenched and his eyes closed as he started to understood her reasons. He opened his eyes finally when he felt her hand pressing on his chest.

"I—"

"It won't be like that, Sam. It _won't,_" he said, trying to convince her.

Sam shook her head slowly, clasping part of his shirt in her hand. She swallowed hard and then asked, "Do you remember that first time we went fishing?"

He nodded, looking puzzled.

"Do you remember when I was startled, and thought I'd heard someone?"

He nodded again; then his eyes widened. "You didn't hear anything."

She shook her head. "No."

Closing his eyes, he asked, "Did I do something to make you afraid?"

Her eyes darted down to stare at her fingers as they fumbled with his buttons. She nodded again.

He closed his eyes against the pain of knowing that he'd caused her fear. Still, he needed to know just how. "It's terribly important that you tell me what it was, Sam."

She gulped again, and for a moment he thought she was going to break down. Her brow furrowed as if she were in agony. He truly didn't want to cause her any further suffering, but he had to know.

Her lips trembled as she began, "I, um, I... when you lay... on top of me... it was like when he... he… I felt..."

He shushed her and pulled her against him, letting her bury her head under his chin. He got the idea. Still, it shocked him. She seemed so willing and so eager for his touches and kisses. He now had to wonder if she was terrified of his touch. "Sam… when we marry, and we—"

"Christopher, I need to know that I can handle this _before_ I marry you; that I'm not likely to... hurt you."

_Hurt_ _me_? "What do you mean?"

She sighed heavily. "I've given my brother a black eye before, just for trying to wake me up." She pulled out from under his chin and met his gaze. "I killed a man, just because I was afraid that he would hurt me the way his brother had. I can't begin to imagine what I would do if… in the middle of… if I felt, thought—"

Christopher stopped her by pressing his fingers to her lips. "I understand. I do." He held her tightly to him and rocked her from side to side as he considered what all this meant. He understood that she didn't want to hurt him and she obviously was afraid that, should it happen, she'd be afraid to be with him at all after that. She didn't want a marriage without sex. _Neither do I._ This put him in a difficult position. On the one hand, he could willingly do what she asked, but on the other hand, he would be breaking the trust her father had bestowed on him, and everything he believed morally right.

He eased them both up onto the sofa so they sat together as before. Sam clutched his side and he held her tightly against him. Sighing with frustration, he made a decision.

"Sam, while I understand what you're telling me, I can't in good conscience—" Sam pushed away from him and made to interrupt, but he changed course and said, "Your father…"

"He knows."

Christopher blinked with surprise. "Knows what exactly?"

She inhaled deeply. "He knew what I intended to do tonight."

"Intended… to do?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded.

"And _what_ exactly had you intended?" She bit her bottom lip as he looked more deeply into her eyes. "Sam?"

"To... convince you to make love to me—tonight."

Foyle was speechless. He had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Early in their working relationship, her father had traveled from Lyminster to Hastings just to take Sam back home to protect her from even the possibility of doing exactly what she was planning tonight. He looked in her eyes and saw the earnestness of her belief that it was the only way.

"After your visit, when you left that night, and after your near-proposal, I felt a bit overwhelmed, so I went out to the garden just to think for a while. I didn't know what to do. I was only out there for a few minutes when Dad came looking for me." Sam eased back against him and tucked her head against his shoulder and under his chin before continuing, "He didn't understand my dilemma at first, assuming that I was trying to decide whether to accept a proposal from you. I could easily say yes to you, you know, if... if I knew that I wouldn't be fighting you every time we... we had sex or that..." she faltered. She'd never before been this candid about such an intimate topic with anyone, except of course recently with her father.

"Or that what?" he encouraged.

She squirmed a bit against his side, trying to decide how best to explain.

"Sam, you can tell me anything; I'm not going to stop loving you."

She sighed heavily and hastily revealed, "I'm scared it's going to… to hurt, as it did then. Dad tried to assure me it wouldn't, but I... I need to _know_, for sure."

Christopher swallowed, trying to clear the lump in his throat and stave off the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He wanted to confirm what her father had told her, but didn't think he could speak without breaking down just yet. He was grateful for Sam's apparent reluctance to meet his eyes.

Sam felt they were at an impasse. She didn't think that Christopher was going to agree to her terms, and she couldn't wait to see if her wedding night would be as glorious as Margaret had told her it would be, or if it would end disastrously. It all came down to one thing: Would Christopher dare to make love to her without the bonds of matrimony?

"Wha..." his voice broke. Clearing his throat, he continued, "What else did your father say?"

"He was against it at first. Then after I… explained the problem, he tried to say that he thought _you_ would not agree to such a plan. And then I told him my plan. He didn't really say much more. It wasn't until he said goodbye at the train that he told me he hoped I find an answer, soon. He said he just wants me to be happy." Sam inched away from him, just enough to look into his eyes. "I am happy with you… but I need to deal with this fear, no matter how irrational it may seem. Can you understand that?"

"I can." He cupped her cheek, caressing it ever so gently with his thumb, and gazed deeply into her eyes, glistening with unshed tears. "I love you, Sam, and I'll do whatever it takes to make this go away."

Sam knew, deep down in her heart, that he spoke only truth; that he would do whatever she needed. "Then please show me, Christopher, how to make love with you."

He watched, mesmerised, as her head dipped slowly toward his own, and then his eyes closed when her lips met his. He hadn't shared such a tender kiss since the night they'd declared their feelings for each other. His hand on her cheek trailed lower to her neck, tugging her closer to deepen the kiss.

Sam ran her hand up his chest, and then up over his shoulders to wrap her arms tightly around his neck, molding her body to his. Christopher groaned. He increased the pressure of his hold on her as he gently sucked on her tongue, making a small whimper escape her throat. For several, long, delicious moments she lost herself in his kiss, at first soft and gentle, then more insistent as he opened his mouth and slid his tongue past her lips.

A heady combination of fierce protectiveness and male desire surged through him. He closed his fist in her hair and drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. His lips left hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He licked it and then sucked—her breath hitched. Her fingers had spread through his hair; her hands tightly held his head as he shifted his hold and smoothed a hand over her arm and down her side to skim over her hip. Her skirt had ridden up and his fingers had only to walk mere inches to feel the smoothness of her thigh. He hadn't forgotten her bare legs.

Sam mewled delightedly with each new sensation that coursed through her. This was what she'd come to know of making love over the last few months. She would savor every moment of it, of his touches and caresses, of his little nips and bites as he teased her. She moaned with delighted surprise each time he touched her. He began to massage her thigh, moving ever higher beneath the hem of her skirt, in a tantalising motion that drew a moan of pleasure from her lips.

Suddenly recalling where they were, Christopher broke the kiss. She groaned at the loss, surely thinking he was again going to resist. But he knew this was not the proper place for this, not for her first time, not for showing her how it really could be between them. "Sam. Let's take this upstairs. Shall we?"

With a relieved sigh, Sam adjusted her skirt and pushed off him. He stood and helped her to her feet. He took her hand and led her to the stairs, switching off the lights on their way. He followed behind her, pleasurably tortured by the sway of her hips as she preceded him up the stairway.

At the top of the stairs, Sam turned to him in expectation. He rested a hand on the small of her back and guided her into his darkened room. The lamps were off and the storm still raged outside. Christopher stepped past her and switched on a lamp on his bedside table. He smiled when he turned to find her still standing just inside the door. He held out his hand to her and she stepped forward, arm outstretched, and allowed him to gently tug her into his arms.

Although obviously willing to follow through on her decision, Sam couldn't help being a bit nervous. This was Mr. Foyle—Christopher... _Sir_—and they were going to make love. Just a few short months ago, she'd lain in her hospital bed, wistfully dreaming of just such an eventuality. And now, she was about to learn what it took to love a man like him and to have that love returned. Her hand lay on his chest, covering his heart, feeling its rapid beating against her palm.

Christopher's fingers tangled into her long curls as his other hand caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes and pressed her face more firmly against his hand, enthralled by his touch. He moved his hands to cup her head and trailed kisses along her jaw. When his lips dropped to brush her throat, Sam's heart stopped for a beat and her eyes fell shut.

In the moments that followed, filled with his insistent mouth on hers, his tongue plunging and retreating, the pressure of his hands on her hips, tugging her closer to his body, and the heavy breaths that seemed to come from deep within him, Sam knew that her lover had reached the point of no return. And she wasn't afraid. Instead, a hunger to touch and taste him consumed her like fire, making her legs weak. Sam swayed into him, clutching his open waistcoat to steady herself. Suddenly, his fingers pushed her blouse off her shoulders and down her arms to let it drop to the floor. Then, his hands possessively cupped her lace-covered breasts and his mouth closed over a hardened nipple, making Sam's knees buckle under her.

Christopher held her up. She could feel his smile against her breast and she smiled, too. This was new, more intimate than anything they'd done before together. A flick of his fingers unclasped her brassiere. It soon joined her blouse on the floor.

She was rendered helpless by his touch and arched her back, offering herself to him, silently begging him to go further. With his mouth he worshiped her, kissing each darkened nub, licking and tasting, making her gasp. With her responsiveness inflaming his passion, and his arousal straining against his trousers, Christopher was suddenly gasping for air. He needed her; he couldn't remember this kind of need to couple, but he also needed to keep his head until Sam was ready for him.

With deft fingers, he circled her waist and found the small clasp at the back of her skirt. Releasing it, he pushed her skirt down and let it fall with a soft _swoosh_ to the floor. He didn't miss the fact that she hadn't worn a slip beneath it. She stood before him now in nothing but her knickers.

His gaze followed the faint blush that traveled up her body. She moved to cover herself with her hands, but he caught them with his and held them to her sides. "No, don't, Sam. Let me look at you."

Christopher hadn't had a woman in his bedroom, let alone his bed, in nearly fourteen years. His heart raced with anticipation as he knelt before her and grasped her hips. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her undergarment and slowly eased it down her soft legs to the floor. When she would have covered herself again, he caught her hands. "You're beautiful, Sam," he murmured. "Please don't hide from me."

He softly pressed a kiss to her belly, just below her navel, and Sam wasn't prepared for the intense sensations his mouth created when it touched her so near her centre. Her hands became restless as he explored her body with his lips; they fell to his shoulders and clasped them firmly. It was more intimate than she could have ever imagined; his mouth so near her apex. For a moment, she wondered what it would feel like for him to go lower… and then he did. _"Christopher!" _She clutched his shoulders and held on for dear life.

He breathed deeply, taking in her heady scent, and then hummed as he placed a long, warm kiss upon the edge of the curls covering her sex. Finally able to do as he had wished earlier, he ran his hands down her long, graceful legs and then back up again. He felt her quiver, and then he touched the inside of her thigh, massaging the soft skin just below her swollen lips. Each time he barely skimmed her folds, she mewled like a feline in heat and pressed her body more firmly to his fingers and lips.

Christopher delighted in the small sounds she made at his touch, pleased he could make her respond so. Although his own body wasn't immune and was desperate for release, his only cognizant goal was to give her pleasure—to please _Sam_, to prove to her how wonderful sex could be with the right person.

He braced her hips. She gasped as he lifted one leg at her knee and placed it over his shoulder, allowing her to shift her balance and curl her leg over his back. Her fingers now threaded through the curls on his head as she tried to steady herself. His access to the heart of her now unfettered, he supported her with one arm and traced a finger along her folds, pressing firmly against her little nub. Hearing Sam's cry of pleasure, he slid further down, pushing a finger into her hot, wet tunnel. She arched backward, one hand still clinging to his head while the other searched for purchase on the footboard of his bed. He tightened his arm around her hip. "I need to taste you, Sam," he whispered, before acting, making her whole body jolt with the thrill of anticipation. And he did. He tasted, licked, sucked, teased her with his tongue and she thought she was going to die of pleasure.

When he added another finger and allowed her to become accustomed to the pressure, she moaned softly. He set a regular pace intended to bring her to orgasm, giving her no choice. Both hands cupped his head as her whole body trembled violently.

Without removing his fingers from her core, he rose to his feet and eased her back onto the bed, continuing to stroke her gently as she came down from her orgasm and her breathing returned to normal.

Sam gazed up at him, desire darkening her eyes as she raised her hand and caressed his cheek tenderly. Smiling, Christopher leaned into her palm before lowering his head to kiss her. A moment later, Sam broke the kiss and shifted. "You're overdressed, Sir," she said as she rose up to kneel next to him.

Christopher propped his weight up on one elbow, supporting his head with one hand, and beamed at her, amused at her chosen term of address. He was also relieved by her responsiveness. "Am I?"

Her eyes traveled over him and she mischievously chuckled as she pressed another kiss to his lips. "Yep."

He sat up on his knees in imitation of her. "What should we do about that?" His hand roamed up along her thigh and sneaked about her waist as he brought his lips close to hers again.

"I think…" she drawled against his mouth as her fingers started working the buttons on his shirt, "that I should like to see you as you see me."

He grinned. "I doubt very much, Miss Stewart, that you will see me as I see you. But, if you insist, we can try it your way."

Sam gave him a sly smile. "I do insist." She released the last button of his shirt then ran her hands over the coarse hair of his chest, tangling in the curls. He grinned affectionately at the intensity of her expression. She glided her hands further up and over his shoulders, pushing his shirt and waistcoat off them in a single motion. She threw them aside and grasped each of his forearms with her hands. She massaged the length of them and then back down again, smiling unashamedly as she did so. "I've wanted to do that for _so_ long," she sighed softly.

He tilted his head in consideration. "For how long, Sam?"

"Since the first day we met." Her confession elicited a raised eyebrow from her lover.

Sam again slid her hands over his shoulders, then down his chest. This time, her hands moved lower. Her tongue darted out between her teeth as she concentrated on unbuttoning his braces with shaky fingers. He raised his hand to her cheek, cupping it, letting his thumb graze over her lips and the tip of her tongue. She sucked it back in quickly and darted her eyes up at his.

Christopher left the bed momentarily to unbutton his pants but she pushed his hands aside to loosen them for him. He groaned deeply when her hands skidded along his arousal as she worked at the task. His trousers pooled around his feet and he kicked them aside. Knowing Sam's inquisitiveness, he deftly stilled her hands, holding both of her wrists in one hand as he swiftly removed his boxers. She pouted when he kept her from touching him, but then her eyes widened when she looked down at him. He hated preventing it, but if he allowed her to wrap her delicate hands around his engorged member, he'd quickly lose what little control he had left. "Lie back, Sam," he instructed, and she obeyed, if a bit reluctantly, wishing to touch him in kind.

He lay alongside her once again, caressing her thigh, her hip; his fingers skittered over her ribs and smoothed the skin below her breasts tenderly. She turned her head to face him and closed her eyes at the heaven of his feathery touch. Leaning forward, he licked a puckered nipple then suckled it, nipping the peak. She arched her back and pressed against him. His hand continued to caress her, closing about her other breast, kneading it firmly.

Her legs moved restlessly, trying to assuage the heat and pressure building between them. She wanted him to touch her there again, but didn't know how to ask.

Understanding her need, Christopher's fingers drifted slowly lower. Sam arched against his hand, desperately trying to angle in a way so that he'd touch her just where she wanted. He laughed softly at her eagerness. This was what he wanted—_needed_—from her. He couldn't rush this; she had to want it as badly as he did. He knew it was her need that would get her past her fears.

When he finally reached her centre, she inhaled sharply and he easily slid his fingers inside. "You're so moist, love." She squirmed against each thrust, wanting more. He stroked her faster and faster as she bucked against him, her hands knotted in the sheets. Then he slowed his pace, almost stilling his hand completely.

With a satisfied sigh, he pulled his mouth from her breast to trail kisses up her arm, across her shoulder, along her jaw, and into the hollow of her throat. Spreading her legs with his thighs, he moved above her, and propped himself up on his forearms on either side of her. Finally, he slid his arousal along her wet folds, and then poised himself at her entrance. Sam tensed, gasping, clenching her eyes shut, her hands now pressing with panic against his chest.

He'd felt it, immediately. "Sam. No, Sam, look at me, sweetheart. Look at my face, love." The softness of his entreaty coaxed her to look up into his face. "It's me, Christopher... just me. Put your hands on my arms; touch me, feel me." She did, her tremulous hands gripping his arms like a lifeline. "Take a deep breath, love." She complied, her mouth quavering as she exhaled, her eyes fluttering shut again. "Now another, and keep looking at me." Sam felt the tension ease from her body, and so did he. "Don't close your eyes."

Although she was virginal tight, he entered her easily, for she was warm and moist, and she gave out only one small, shocked gasp that melted into a low-pitched moan. As he slowly eased himself inside her, she responded with a vise-like grip on his arms. "Christopher," she gasped, looking at him questioningly. He paused, his smile deep and reassuring, and then pushed forward, burying himself to the hilt. "All right?" he asked gently. She took in a shaky breath then nodded.

He started to withdraw but her hands moved on his arms frantically and she cried out, "No, don't stop."

He chuckled low and deep in his chest. "I'm not leaving, love. It's only the beginning. Shall we continue?"

"Yes," she hissed with abandon as he pushed back into her.

His hips moved powerfully between her legs, thrusting deep into her and then withdrawing slowly. Her brown eyes locked with his blue ones as his thrusts and her breaths grew shorter and faster. He captured her lips with his. Sam's hands skimmed up his arms to his shoulders and then cupped his head, deepening the kiss. Their lovemaking was the only sound in the room.

She couldn't believe she'd been so afraid of _this_, even with him. The beauty in the intimacy of their lovemaking and her trust in him brought tears to her eyes. It was tender and powerful all at the same time. Something instinctual, primal, had her meeting his thrusts with her own. The need to take as much of him in as possible overpowered all rational thought.

The sensations Sam experienced were much more intense even than those she'd felt earlier in the ministrations of his fingers and his tongue; this was more, so much more, that she was afraid of reaching the crest of the wave she was riding.

Suddenly, it pulled her under. Her muscles clamped around his hardened length and she trembled violently, moaning aloud, _"Oh, sir…!"_ Her cry enveloped his senses and he growled deep in his chest as his release overtook him. He rode her vigorously as her body continued to spasm around him with each long thrust.

When her arms collapsed onto the bed, her body spent, he shifted to one side so that he was only partially covering her. It was only then that he noticed her tears. He tenderly kissed them away.

When he began to shift away, she clenched her thighs around him, preventing him from moving. She felt his eyes upon her and she turned her head to look at him. A question hovered in his eyes.

"Don't leave me, please… not yet."

His face softened. Without breaking contact with her body, he slipped his arms under her and flipped her over so that she now lay on top of him. She hummed softly as she pressed her head against his chest, hearing clearly the rapid beating of his heart. He could still feel her muscles spasm around him, aftershocks of their lovemaking. His eyes closed as he listened to Sam's breathing return to normal and they both dozed, exhausted.

TBC...


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Hi, all. This is the last chapter before the epilogue. Hope you've enjoyed the ride, and if so, please feel free to leave a review.

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><p>Sam woke gently, cradled in warmth. She blinked against the haze covering her eyes and realized it hadn't been just a wonderfully delicious dream. From what she could sense, the storm from the previous night had abated but the sky remained covered, keeping the bedroom shrouded in darkness with only a faint light coming through the windows. Feeling a cool breeze on her bare shoulder, she guessed that Christopher, in the wee hours of the morning, had opened the window to let in the cool breeze after the rainstorm. Still, she didn't feel cold; instead, she lay on her side, facing him, her hands enfolded within each other and tucked against her chest, her legs tangled with his, and he had one arm wrapped around her with the other cradling her head. She'd never felt as safe or as loved as she did in that moment. She peeked up toward his face to see if he was awake but a shiny glint caught her eye and diverted her attention to her hands. Her eyes misted over as she gazed upon the ring, the diamond glinting in the faint light filtering in from the window. She didn't wonder how it got there; it was obvious the dear man had placed it on her hand sometime while she slept.<p>

Finally, she gazed up to his face and met his intense, questioning gaze.

"When did you purchase –"

"Just before the festivities in May," he answered her unfinished question, his voice husky from sleep.

She blinked against the tears welling in her brown eyes. "That long?"

He gave her a short nod then tugged her in tighter against his chest and tucked her head under his chin. "I knew from the start that I wanted to marry you, Sam. I'm not the kind to get in a relationship without expecting to marry."

He was still insecure, even after their night of lovemaking. She saw it in his eyes when he gazed down at her and heard it in the staccato his heart made in his chest. Sam needed to ease his anxiety, just as he'd tenderly erased her fears. Gently, she pushed against him until he tumbled back against his pillow. She straddled him, leaned over and, with her bare chest pressed against his, simply said, "Yes."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant, but when he did, he sat up, cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her. Evidence of his arousal prodded Sam's heated centre and it occurred to her that this was a most sublime position. A minor re-adjustment of herself in his lap aligned his body perfectly for penetration, but a noise downstairs distracted her before the deed could be done.

Christopher evidently heard it as well for he suddenly broke their kiss and glanced toward the door. Sam quickly left his lap and covered herself with a bed sheet while he got out of bed and donned his robe.

"Wait here," he whispered before peering out into the hallway. He heard a cupboard door open and close. _Andrew._ _Stellar timing, as usual._ He looked at Sam and sighed. This was not what he had planned for this morning.

Christopher quietly shuffled down the stairs and found his son rummaging in the cupboards. "Andrew."

Andrew swiveled around, startled but not completely surprised. "Sorry, Dad. Didn't mean to wake you. Seems I have the habit of it."

Christopher bit the inside of his cheek as he gave his son a curt nod. "Haven't seen or heard from you in a couple weeks. You, uh, home for long?"

Andrew took out a plate from the cooler and placed it on the counter. "I took the train down yesterday from London, but stayed at a friend's last night."

"Is that where you've been hiding out?" Christopher asked.

Andrew met his father's gaze and replied, "I haven't been hiding out. Actually, I've got a job. Uncle Charles put me to work reorganizing at the Admiralty. I'm getting a flat in London and thought I'd collect some things to take up with me."

Christopher's brow rose inquiringly. "Uncle Charles, hmm?"

Andrew was making a sandwich out of the leftovers. "Yeah, I ran into him when I was trying to find an address of a friend and he took me out for lunch." He glanced at the clock then back at his Dad and suddenly realized the late hour. "Still in bed?"

"It was… a late night," Christopher quickly supplied.

"I was thinking, if you wanted to, we could go fishing this afternoon."

Christopher started to say he had other plans, but the creaking of the ceiling boards drew both of their attentions upward. Andrew looked puzzled while Christopher cringed at the untimely cue.

Andrew's face screwed up in confusion. "Is someone staying here, Dad?"

Christopher slowly closed his eyes and bit his cheek, hard. When he opened them again, he saw dawning understanding reflected back at him in his son's eyes as they darted over his state of undress.

"Dad?" Andrew couldn't believe even his own thoughts. The boards creaking were directly over the kitchen, so whoever was up there was in his father's room. The question appeared on his face.

"A lot has happened since you've been gone, Andrew. You took off in quite a hurry."

"So you married her without even telling me?"

Christopher let out a defeated sigh and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. _Damn it. _He motioned for the chair and told his son, "Have a seat."

"When was the wedding?"Andrew asked as he sat down.

"Sam and I are not married… _yet_. She's accepted my proposal and I plan for us to marry next Saturday, if possible."

Andrew looked incredulously at his father, as if he had two heads. "Wait, so, you... she..."

_This cannot be happening! _"Sam's been away for a few weeks, dealing with some issues. She just returned last night."

"So she stayed here? Wait, what issues?" Andrew asked suddenly deeply concerned.

Christopher didn't know how much to tell his son, but it distracted him from asking impertinent questions. It was, however, Sam's story to tell, if she so desired. Still, it was public record that she'd been arrested for killing Henry Stevens. _I can at least tell him that much. Maybe it'll distract him long enough he'll forget the other… situation._

"The night after the celebrations, Sam was arrested."

"_What?"_ Andrew exclaimed.

"She was assaulted by a man and she killed him... before he could harm her further." Andrew shook his head in disbelief, but Christopher continued. "The situation brought up some rather disturbing memories for her. After being released, she went home to Lyminster and has been there since – until last night."

"What memories?" Andrew asked.

Christopher shook his head and said, "Sam will have to tell you, if she wants. It's her memories, her story."

"So, she returns and what… you sleep together?" Andrew asked incredulously.

"Andrew!" Christopher spoke sharply. Then the stairs creaked.

Andrew jumped to his feet. "Sam," he said in a surprised greeting.

"Andrew," she replied, crossing the threshold, fully dressed in a knit blouse, cardigan and slacks, with her hair swept back into a quick chignon. "Good morning," she greeted, eyeing Christopher cautiously, hoping he wouldn't be upset with her for ignoring his request to remain in his room. Having heard bits of the conversation from upstairs, she'd come prepared to counter Andrew's assumption that his father had spent the night with her on a whim. Not wishing to add to the tension in the room, Sam acted as though nothing was amiss and went to the stove to make tea.

She glanced back to meet her fiancé's eyes. "You should go fishing," she said, letting him know she'd heard enough of the conversation. "I have some things to sort out at my flat and you two could spend some time together."

Andrew had taken his seat again and watched the interchange between Sam and his father, who had settled back into his chair somewhat casually. He hadn't expected her to come down the stairs, and by the looks of things, neither had his father. He also hadn't expected Sam to look… well, normal. Actually, she looked almost… radiant. As for his father, Andrew didn't miss the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Sam. He swallowed hard as he realized what he was witnessing between his ex-girlfriend and his father. _This must be what love looks like._ Clearing his throat, he interjected, "You could join us, too."

Sam whirled around to face him, momentarily speechless at the unexpected offer. "I, uh, I don't think so." She darted a shy glance to Christopher and said, "If we're to be married next Saturday, then I have a lot to do."

"Yes, absolutely," Christopher agreed, sounding more chipper. "And on that note, I think I'll get dressed." He stood and headed for the stairs while Sam returned to making the morning tea. With one foot on the bottom stair, Christopher turned back around and pointed at his son and then mouthed _Behave_ before glancing meaningfully at Sam. Seeing his son roll his eyes at him confirmed that his son got the point. He went to change.

Andrew watched as Sam added leaves to the teapot, noticing how comfortable she seemed in his father's kitchen. Although he'd known they were seeing each other, he hadn't fully realized the depth of their feelings for each other. It took the shock of interrupting their morning in the sack, apparently, to understand what they'd been trying to tell him. It was difficult to accept, though he would… eventually. Sam was the same age as he and it never occurred to him that his father would ever develop feelings for someone so much younger. He'd known Sam deeply respected his father but had never guessed at her depth of feeling for the older man, never suspecting she'd harbored romantic feelings towards him even though she'd talked a lot about him.

He also knew he owed Sam an apology for his abrupt departure the last time they saw each other. He joined her at the counter, leaned against it and tried to catch her eye. Her head was down and he couldn't help but feel that she was trying to avoid eye contact. "Sam, I, uh, I owe you an apology."

She finally met his gaze and unassumingly tilted her head and asked, "For what?"

"For, um, acting like a heel the last time we talked. I guess it was just more than I could deal with."

"There's nothing to forgive, Andrew. It was perfectly understandable," she rambled. "I mean, really, you hadn't known anything had changed that much and I suppose it _was_ quite a shock."

He eyed her studiously. "You really do love him."

"Yes, I do," she said in her matter-of-fact way. "He means everything to me. He's given me the courage to do something I wasn't sure that I could."

"And what is that?"

"To love someone like I do your father and to have that love returned in kind."

"That doesn't make sense, Sam. You are one of the most loveable persons I know, you give so freely and so effortlessly. How could you ever think you couldn't be loved?"

"That's not what I meant."

"But…" For a split second, he recalled the last time he'd kissed her and how it had felt like the very first time – chaste. His eyes darted to hers and her flushed cheeks. He understood that she'd meant more than the emotional attachment of love, but he didn't understand why. He also didn't know if he should ask after what his father had told him.

He watched her eyes drop. She chewed on her bottom lip, her attention now on the tea kettle that was about to whistle. She switched off the burner and set the kettle aside.

"Dad said you'd been arrested, that you killed a man. Is it true?"

"Hmm. Yes. Two, actually," she replied.

"Two? Wait, he said only one. When did the second one happen? And why? I mean…that is if you want to tell me."

Sam glanced toward the stairs, hoping to find Christopher had returned. She'd actually prefer it if he told his son rather than having to do it herself. She heard a creaking of the boards upstairs. She flicked a glance at Andrew. She didn't know if she should tell him or not; she didn't know if she even wanted him to know. It was enough that Christopher knew… and Milner. She glanced again in his direction out of the corner of her eyes. If she told him, she knew it would mean something more to him that she would entrust him with a secret. Besides, she was about to become part of his family.

Sam turned to sit against the counter, wrapping her arms around her. "Please know that what I'm going to tell you goes no further than here. Only my family, friends in Lyminster, Sergeant Milner and your father know of it."Andrew nodded his understanding, so she told him the whole story.

Shocked, Andrew shook his head and looked her up and down. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but he knew it wouldn't be welcomed… not from him, not now.

"After that, his family moved away from the area and I'd never heard from or seen them since. Then, a few weeks ago, his younger brother, who was stationed here with the Home Guard, saw me and recognized me. He tried to... uh… he wanted revenge. And, I defended myself."

She hugged herself tighter, giving herself a little shake before turning back to the kettle. She poured the hot water into the teapot and replaced the cover. "I really don't want to dwell on it any further, not today. I don't want to upset your father."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"No need to be. It's done and I think we've moved past it, at least for now."

"And last night?" he asked sincerely.

She closed her eyes. "Your father wanted to propose and I wouldn't let him… not until I was sure I could be a _proper_ wife."She opened her eyes again to find Andrew staring intently at her. "Your father is a good man, Andrew. Better than you give him credit for. He would never do anything that would hurt me."

"I know that."

"Do you? Really? Because it doesn't sound like it." She watched him struggle with what to say, but she continued, "Last night was _my_ idea, and I had to bare my soul to get him to go against his own beliefs on the matter."

Andrew now looked as uncomfortable with himself as she thought he should. "I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't know."

"There's no reason you should have, but still, he is your father and you might want to keep that in mind when you go fishing later. He could use your support in this. I'm sure he's going to get enough ribbing from others for marrying his driver… _his much younger driver_."

"Do I have your forgiveness then?" he asked quietly.

She gave a curt nod then took the teapot, cups and saucers and set them on the table. "I think there may be a little milk in the cooler. Would you mind?"

"No, not at all. I'll get it."

She heard footsteps then and waited for Andrew and Christopher to join her before pouring. They sat in an uncomfortable silence a moment or two and then Andrew asked Sam about the wedding.

She darted a quick glance to Christopher. They hadn't talked about it. He shrugged and nodded for her to go ahead. He was leaving it all in her hands… except for the license, of course.

"I actually haven't given it much thought yet. I suppose…" She looked to Christopher again and continued, "I suppose my uncle could officiate and um, I could wear my mother's dress."

"What about a reception and a dance? The war is over now; it would be a bit of fun."

"Maybe. I… don't know really," she stammered, wide-eyed. "I should probably call my parents."

"I'll do that." Christopher finally interjected. "You can work out the details with your mother _after_ I talk with your father."

She nodded and chewed a bit more on her lip while thinking about it all. It wasn't true that she hadn't given it any thought. She had… all week long before she left Lyminster, before she spent the night with Christopher and before he put the ring on her finger. She'd had it all worked out in her mind, but now he'd thrown a stick into her plans and moved it up to only a week away. She wasn't complaining, by any means. No, it was just a little quicker than she had planned. At least she knew her mother's dress would fit, since she'd tried it on the day before traveling back to Hastings. It had been done on a whim and without her mother knowing. She hadn't wanted to get her mother's hopes up.

After all the thoughts about the wedding, she started contemplating about the upcoming week. Their wedding night would not be as expected. She'd already spent the night with him. _So now what?_

Christopher recognized the look on Sam's face. It was the same one she had when she had the crossroads looming before her with Farnetti. _What is she conjuring up in that mind of hers now,_ he wondered. She needed a distraction.

"Sam, why don't you get your things and while you do that, Andrew can gather the tackle and rods and I'll call your father."

Andrew was already on his feet before his father finished speaking and left the room. His departure gave them a moment alone, long enough to ask her fiancé a rather pertinent question.

"Do you want me to stay at my flat until the wedding, or should I pack the rest of my things and bring them over today?"

This wasn't just about moving in and he knew it. "Pack your things, Sam. When Andrew and I get back, we'll pick you up." He stood and held out his hand to help her stand. Once on her feet, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. "This is your home now, Sam."

It was only then that she noticed the changes he'd made, the missing pictures, vases, and trinkets that she knew had belonged to his late wife. She blinked against the tears welling in her eyes. He'd been planning to marry her for some time and she hadn't trusted in him enough to realize he would do anything to make her happy and satisfied. "I love you," she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"I love you too, Sam."

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><p>After a bit of discussion, they'd decided that they would wait until Sam had gathered her things and then take her back to the house before they went fishing. She let them know, after Andrew once again asked her to join them, she really didn't want to go along. She knew better than either of them that what they needed was some father-son time. She had done the same with not only her mother but also her father this last time she was home. After finally telling her father her fears, they'd talked into the wee hours of the morning. Then during the rest of that week, Sam and her mother had spent days talking about love, marriage, babies, and even loss. Sam now had a tiny inkling of how Christopher had felt when he'd lost his wife to such a terrible illness. Each day she was away from him started to feel like an eternity and until she stepped onto the train, she couldn't get rid of the empty feeling in her stomach. It was no longer a matter of <em>wanting<em> to be with him, she _needed_ to be with him.

So, when she'd finished getting the few things she'd left in her billet, and Christopher had stowed her luggage in the boot of the car, he drove her back to the house, unloaded and told her to make herself at home. He let her know she'd find room for her things in the drawers and closet in his bedroom. Then after asking her again if she was sure she didn't want to join them, he left her to it.

An hour later, Sam had finished putting her things away and had located the linens to remake the bed. She smiled fondly as she stripped the bed, remembering the night before. She pressed his pillow to her face, breathing in deeply, smelling his unique scent lingering there. She blushed as she recalled her eager responses to his hands and lips on her body and how wantonly she'd felt. It was basic – primal. He was hers and she was his. Her dreams had never been nearly as good as the real thing.

With a sigh, she set about finishing the bed and then took a mental inventory of each room of the house, noting the items she recalled from before and what was now missing. Only one picture remained hanging in the entryway, and only a few small trinkets remained. He hadn't erased Rosalind completely and Sam wouldn't want it any other way. He was who he was partly because of her and her love.

Two hours later, she heard the front door open and came from the kitchen to greet them. She was surprised to find only Christopher. Looking past him, she expected to see Andrew but the door was shut already.

"Andrew is staying with his friend again. He'll be there _all week_."

"Oh." She saw the twinkle in his eyes and couldn't help blushing.

He wrapped an arm around her, while cradling his fishing basket in the other. They walked to the kitchen and he showed her their catch – three good-sized trout.

"Shall we clean them and fry one for supper?" she asked.

Christopher tilted his head in consideration. "How about we invite Paul and Edith to dine out tonight?" He smiled up at her. "Perhaps a celebratory supper... for our engagement?"

"I was actually hoping we could stay in tonight. It's going to be a hectic week and it might be one of the few nights until after the wedding that we have _alone, _you know, with Andrew still in town." Sam had a point. "Maybe we could go out with them tomorrow night and we could invite Chief Reid and his wife as well, and it would give Edith more time to find someone to sit with Clementine. Andrew could join us as well."

Christopher appreciated her thoughtfulness and agreed. "So, what _other_ ideas did you have for tonight, my dear?"

Sam played coy, walking to the other side of the table and folded her hands in front of her. "Why Mr. Foyle, I think you have the wrong idea."

"Do I?" he drawled. "I thought the whole idea of us staying in was so we could enjoy the time together…_alone_."

"Well, we could play chess," she started to say as she began moving around the table again, "or I even have a pack of cards. We could play –" Sam suddenly yelped as Christopher came around the other side of the table and caught her around the waist, capturing her with her back against his chest.

He nuzzled her neck and whispered, "Perhaps supper could wait awhile."

Sam breathlessly asked, "You're not hungry."

"Not for food."

"_Oh_."

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><p>Much later that evening, they lay in front of the fireplace, the flickering flames the only light in the darkened living room. Sam's head was resting on his chest, her arm wrapped around him while his fingers lightly caressed it, when she asked, "Have you thought of who you're going to have stand up with you as best man?"<p>

"I had been thinking of Andrew, but after some thought, I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" she asked, tipping her head up.

"Two reasons really. One, he's the same age as you. Secondly, you stepped out with him."

"Oh."

"Who were you thinking of standing up with you?" he queried.

"I called my friend, Margaret, but she and her husband are going up north for her brother's wedding. So I've settled on Edith, if she'll do it."

"Hmm. I could have Paul stand up with me, then."

"I like that. We could ask both of them tomorrow night when we pick them up for supper."

"Since that's settled," Christopher said, while turning on his side and easing her back onto the floor, "I think there's another matter we can take care of right now."

"Oh? What's that?"

He leaned over her, kissing her thoroughly before muttering, "My... insatiable... desire... for you."

She gulped for effect, but grinned mischievously, "Insatiable?"

He placed another full, open-mouthed kiss on her mouth, before easing himself between her legs, "Yep, and we have all night to test my theory that it will take all night to satisfy it."

TBC...


	14. Epilogue

A/N: It's been fun getting back to writing and finishing a fic. Hope you enjoyed the story. I'd like to give my betas one more shout out for helping through the process. Thank you!

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><p>"I do."<p>

"You do?"

"Yes. It's lovely!" Samantha Foyle beamed at her husband as he guided her through the first floor of their new house, just outside the city proper of London. She lightly ran her hand over the mantle of the fireplace in the sitting room. She turned back toward the entrance hall and the staircase leading upstairs. Across it was another room with French doors that Sam had already decided would make a perfect office and told her husband so.

Christopher Foyle turned to his bride, for although it had been six months since their wedding, it was still within the first year, and hence bride was appropriate. He nodded to the stairs and held out his hand to her. "Shall we take a look upstairs?"

She joined him and took his hand. "Four bedrooms?" she asked him for the second time.

"Yep," he replied, grinning as he tenderly caressed her swollen belly.

"Hmm. I did say _children_ didn't I."

"Yes, you did. But, we'll also need a guest room for when Andrew or your parents, even your brothers, come to stay."

"True," she agreed with a tilt of her head.

She'd started for the stairs, but Christopher gently tugged her backward until she was standing in front of him. He wrapped an arm around her, pulled her flush against him, and kissed her. Suddenly, Sam gasped and looked down at her belly. Christopher pressed his hand to the small bulge poking out, and grinned broadly as he met his wife's beautiful, brown eyes.

"She's kicking!" Sam exclaimed then giggled as she felt another one. "It's a rather odd feeling."

"She?"

"Oh, yes, rather. Mum was saying she'd never had as much morning sickness as she did with me. So, I think..." She hesitated a moment. "Do you not want a girl?"

Before answering her, he pulled her close once again and kissed her forehead. "I would like nothing better than a little girl."

"Really?"

"Yes. A little girl with brown eyes," he answered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "And she must have an overactive imagination, just like her mother."

"Or," Sam drawled. "She could be a little girl with curly dark hair and have the quiet reserve of her father."

"Hmm… either way, she'll be very much loved and, I'm afraid, spoiled rotten by her older brother."

"Oooh, Andrew would wouldn't he." She shook her head against the thought. "He'll probably teach her all sorts of naughty things to harass us with."

"I think he'd like nothing more."

"Maybe we should have bought a smaller house," Sam teased.

Christopher chuckled. "Or maybe he should get married and be kept as busy as you and I will be with a young one tearing through the house and getting into things."

"Well, if we stick to my plan, we'll fill up all the rooms and he'll have to find another place to stay or just not visit at all."

"Your plan? Fill up all the rooms?" Christopher queried with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, yes," she started to say, toying with the knot of his tie. "Our little girl is going to need someone to play with and having another sister or a brother, or both, maybe more, would be just the ticket, don't you think? I mean, I couldn't imagine not having my brothers around when I was growing up. It would have been rather boring. And with you gone on assignments for Whitehall, I'll need _something_ to do."

Christopher laughed quietly but considered a moment his own childhood without any siblings, and then he remembered meeting all of Sam's brothers and the feeling of being part of a large family. Sam was patiently waiting for his reply, gazing softly into his eyes. "Can't argue with clear logic like that, love," he acquiesced.

"But this one," Sam said as she dipped her head and ran her hand over her stomach, "has to come out first."

"Only a few more months to go."

Without lifting her head, Sam peered mischievously up to her husband's face and said, "And then we can set to work on the next one."

Christopher let out a hearty laugh, and then led Sam up the stairs to the four bedrooms.

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><p>Fin!<p> 


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